


Nol Fin Lok Rok Maha [From The Sky He Fell]

by Necrowmancer



Series: Tongues [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dragon Cult, Everything is suffering, F/M, M/M, Merethic Era, Mostly Miraak's History, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sex, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-09-12 18:17:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16877847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Necrowmancer/pseuds/Necrowmancer
Summary: A collection of one chapter stories surrounding the dragon cult and Miraak before his return to Tamriel. Stories take place in the same consecutive universe as my other fic Tongues does. Characters, tags, etc. will be updated as needed. Chapters will be individual noted as well.





	1. The Aftermath of Betrayal [T]

**Author's Note:**

> **Table of Contents:**  
>  (# - Chapter Name || Rating [Warnings] || Characters)  
> I - The Aftermath of Betrayal || T [-] || Core Dragon Priests  
> II - Devourer of Souls || M [Character/Child Death, Violence] || Miraak, Alduin  
> III - The Night We Met || E [Sex, Anal Sex] || Krosis/Miraak  
> IV - The Softest Snow || M [Character Death, Violence] || Krosis, Gruthrathlir  
> V - Spared the Pyre || G [-] || Miraak, Ahzidal  
> VI - Forget Me Not || T [-] || Krosis, Gruthrathlir  
> VII - Krosis Dear || G [-] || Krosis/Miraak  
> VIII - Dust Bowl Dance || E [Violence, Gore, Abuse, Child Death, etc.] || Hevnoraak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations, presumably, occur in dovahzul.
> 
> The remaining 9 masked priests discuss their next steps after a devastating betrayal by their peers, and a few priests mourn the loss of their companions.
> 
> Art of the priests can be found at qethnehzul.tumblr.com
> 
> Characters: The core Dragon Priests  
> Warnings: None

The sound of wind howling outside echoed through the stone halls, the only other sound besides the sad fire that crackled in the pit at the center of the room.

Four empty slots at the table weighed heavily on those who remained, and even though one guest was present, it did nothing to fill the gaps that had been made. No, if anything, the guest was a painful reminder of  _ why  _ there were gaps, and why they were gathered at the table.

Vahlok was the only one who’s face was visible, but he kept a steady gaze at the stone slab that made up the table. Even with metal covering their faces, their emotions were more than clear.

Konahrik let the silence sit over their heads for a long moment, until Hevnoraak finally snapped.

“This is bullshit,” he finally hissed, ripping his mask off with a violent movement before hurling it across the room. The iron mask skidded across the table inches from Morokei with a deafening bang, sending a few sparks flying before it clattered off onto the ground and into the wall. Morokei flinched away from it, drawing his left hand up before sending Hevnoraak a glare through the slits of his mask. Hevnoraak pushed a few strands of loose hair out of his face, hunching over the table in frustration as he bit back anger and, to his displeasure, sorrow.

Konahrik’s head snapped in Henvoraak’s direction, the head priest tensing. “Hevnoraak, how dare-” he began, but today Hevnoraak was having none of it.

The lesser priest shot daggers in Konahrik’s direction, green eyes filled with rage and betrayal. “You knew,” he spat, flashing sharpened teeth. “You knew this whole damn time and you failed to tell any of us about it and now they’re  _ gone.  _ Don’t ‘Hevnoraak’ me. I have every right to be angry. He betrayed us. And you knew about it. And you never once spoke up, never once warned us, never once tried to  _ stop  _ him until it was too late.  _ Any  _ of them.”

Silence fell on the room again as Hevnoraak glowered at Konahrik, his eyes challenging the older priest to speak up again. His shoulders raise and fell harshly with his breathing, only just managing to contain his emotions.

Otar, to no one’s surprise, broke the silence next. “I warned you,” the old man muttered, shifting back in his seat. Nahkriin instinctively leaned away from the old man, anticipating whatever the next stream of rage from Hevnoraak was going to be. 

Hevnoraak’s head snapped to look at Otar, his body jerking into a standing position. His lips twitched and drew back into a snarl, but before he could hurl any sort of insult or spell at him, Vokun had reached up to drag Hevnoraak back into a sitting position.

“We know. We are all suffering. That doesn’t mean we can start fighting amongst ourselves now,” Vokun said quietly, his voice barely able to be heard above the howl of the wind and the snap of the fire. 

Hevnoraak glared at Vokun next, but reluctantly he swallowed his rage and buried his head in his hands.

Rahgot took Otar’s words as a chance to jump in. “You can’t tell me you didn’t expect this,” Rahgot scoffed. “I had been warning you this entire time that the boy was up to no good. If we had stopped him earlier, perhaps the others would still be sitting here with us.”  
A few of the other priests looked to Rahgot in irritation, clearly appalled by his words. 

Konahrik shifted to sit forward, resting his hands on the surface of the table. “I would say that it is, perhaps, unfair to assume that, Rahgot. Miraak did not bring any weakness to them that they did not already have. No doubt it was inevitable that the weak links to our temple would crumble at some point. This simply allowed for them all to be removed at once.” His voice was calm, and though his words stung a few of the other priests, they remained silence. Even Hevnoraak did not snap up at him again, too occupied with keeping his emotions in control. Konahrik shifted his attention to Vahlok, looking across the length of the table and the pit of fire at the center to where the unmasked man sat on the opposite side. “Vahlok, if it weren’t for your courage and bravery, we would no doubt have a much greater problem on our hands. Be proud of what you have done for the temple. You have removed a dangerous snake from our ranks, and you will not be forgotten for that.”

Vahlok tightened his grip on the arm of his stone seat, not lifting his gaze. “I take no pleasure in killing any of them, your honor. They were my - your - brethren. It pains me that it came to this at all,” he spoke slowly, his voice hoarse from the battle mere days before. The taste of smoke still lingered in his mouth and made each intake of breath painful, and many of the wounds he’d been given still would take many more days to heal. 

Konahrik shifted. “Brethren would not turn their backs on us, plot to betray our Gods behind our back while treating us like friends. They were liars, Vahlok. Liars, traitors, and snakes.”

The words made the youngest priest to Vahlok’s right shrink in on himself. Vahlok’s gaze shifted to him out of the corner of his eye. Nonvul had remained quiet since the start of the meeting, and Vahlok could hear from his proximity the subtle sound of his soft weeping behind his stoic mask. Vahlok swallowed, before simply nodding. No. Though the death of the acolyte priests was met with vastly different reactions, he could not disagree with Konahrik. What they had done was unacceptable, heretical, and such a great crime that Vahlok could not even find a term to describe it. 

Seeing that Vahlok had nothing else to say on the matter, Konahrik surveyed the members of the table. “The events that have occured are… unprecedented. And I see that many of you are still perhaps… a bit too emotional about them,” he said, turning his head to the members on his left. Hevnoraak didn’t raise his head from his hands, and Vokun and Volsung did not dare turn their masks in their leader’s direction. Nonvul had not looked up from the table since they had come in, and Volsung shifted her body just enough to casually block Konahrik’s line of sight to the man. “Tomorrow, we will regather to discuss what is to be done,” Konahrik continued, looking at the stack of papers in front of him. “Starting with the land that is now empty of a ruling priest- or, at least, what  _ remains  _ of it. Similarly, we must discuss what must be done about those displaced by our traitor’s disastrous actions, and begin a plan of routes by ship to… well, the  _ island _ .”

If Vahlok hadn’t been there to witness it with his own eyes, if he hadn’t been one of the main reasons it had even  _ happened _ , he no doubt would have thought Konahrik daft. But he had been there. He had watched Miraak sunder the very land, make hills and forests fall into the sea and split the landbridge in half like it was merely made of paper. The earth had shattered and ruptured, shaken and spewed steam and lava as Miraak bent the very world around him to his will. The land, the path that had once connected the peninsula Miraak had ruled from,  _ fled  _ to, was gone. The temple that now was a charred hull of the building it once had been was out on an island of its own, and miles upon miles of land that was once inhabited and traveled had vanished into the sea in an instant. 

Vahlok did not know how he had defeated a man who could do such a feat, who was so desperate to stay alive after all Vahlok had done to defeat him. He flinched at the memory of those empty, oily solid black eyes that had replaced the green ones Vahlok had known. 

Whatever the monster was that he had slain, that he had burned and stabbed and electrocuted until at last he knocked him into the tumultuous black waves that he did not surface from, was not Miraak. Miraak must have died long ago when this monster had taken over him and turned him on what he once loved. Vahlok had seen the devotion Miraak had to his patrons when he was young. He saw the joy and piousness Miraak put into his work as a priest. A man born with the soul of a dragon, a piece of his very gods. No man could be closer to the very things they worshiped. And Vahlok had seen the piety in Miraak and his devotion when he had received the gorgeous gold mask that bore his new name.

That was not the creature that he’d slain. Not the thing that, despite being half burned, bleeding and pinned beneath his staff like an animal, still clawed and snarled at him for the last chance at escaping his death. Who enslaved his gods to kill each other, and had used their bones as decorations to the monster of the woods. Miraak was not that thing.

“I have thought hard about what should be done about those who are missing now,” Konahrik continued, making Vahlok finally glance to him. “I present to you, and advise, that we remove them from our numbers.”

The priests at the table shifted in confusion.

“Elaborate,” Rahgot spat, folding his arms.

“No individual or group has dared to speak up against our patrons in such a manner, let alone members of our hierarchy. And, if there had been, we are clearly not meant to remember them. I propose the same. Such blasphemy and heretics has no place in our books, on our walls, in our history. Destroy all remnants of them. Expunge their heresy from our memories. It has no place in this world.”

There was a few soft murmurs among the table.

Konahrik waved a hand. “I do not expect a choice to be made now, but I beg for all of you to consider it. It might prevent any future…  _ incidents _ from occurring. We do not need anyone to follow in their footsteps for any reason.” With that, Konahrik stood. “I suggest that all of you get your rest. I will not take so kindly to any more  _ outbursts  _ tomorrow.” He scooped up his papers, shifting to leave the room.

The younger half of the table could feel the eyes fall on them by their older peers as Morokei, Otar, Rahgot, Nahkriin and Vahlok left the room one after another, leaving Hevnoraak, Volsung, Vokun and Krosis alone.

The four were silent for a long moment, watching as Vahlok left last. The unmasked priest didn’t make eye contact with any of them, averting his gaze as he stepped out of the room. They waited a few minutes, almost to make sure the others had left before at last Hevnoraak spoke up.

“He knew. He knew the whole time and didn’t damn tell us,” he spat again in frustration, shoving himself up from the chair in frustration. He paced to the other side of the table to pick up his mask, shaking his head.

Volsung reached up and removed her mask, not caring that doing so in the meeting room was strictly forbidden. Hevnoraak had done it anyways, and clearly Konahrik was seeming… lenient about it right now. Perhaps because they were four priests short as it was. She let her mask hit the table with a purposeful clatter, pulling back her hood so she could remove her hair out of it.

“Do you really think we could have stopped him, Hevnoraak?” Volsung said, her voice monotone. 

“We could have at least  _ tried.  _ You weren’t here- You didn’t see how he used to be. He wasn’t… He would have  _ never  _ betrayed us,” Hevnoraak said, shaking his head in disbelief as he looked at the mask in his hands. He closed his eyes and bared his teeth. “Miraak would have  _ never  _ betrayed us. He was one of  _ us.  _ He was the one we all looked up to. He was  _ Miraak _ .”

Vokun hesitantly reached up to remove his own mask. “But he did anyways,” Vokun said quietly, setting his mask neatly in front of him. “Perhaps he was only pretending the whole time.”

Hevnoraak shook his head. “No. No, absolutely  not. There’s no way he was,” Hevnoraak insisted, tightening his grip on the edge of his mask until his knuckles turned white. He let out a shout of anger before throwing a punch at the wall, leaving a dent and a splatter of blood where he split his knuckles. He repeated the actions a few more times, body shaking. Vokun and Volsung looked away, turning their attention to the fire. “Miraak was supposed to be… I don’t know. He wasn’t supposed to be  _ this _ ,” Hevnoraak hissed.

Volsung managed a soft snort. “I didn’t think the devotion aspect of all of this meant that much to you, Hevnoraak,” she said, pulling a knife off her belt to idly turn it in her fingers.

Hevnoraak shook his head. “I don’t. I don’t give a shit about any of this. But Miraak was…”

“Our friend,” Vokun filled in once Hevnoraak trailed off. “And we trusted him. And we believed in him. And he betrayed us. We put him on a pedestal. And he did not live up to our expectations. He was not what we believed he was. We treated him like a dragon, but he was only a man.”

In the silence that fell once more, Volsung could hear the increase in weeping from the one priest who’s mask remained on. Her usually cold stare softened just a bit, before she set down her knife. Volsung turned in her seat, reaching out to gently remove Nonvul’s mask. His face was stained with tears and his eyes were red and puff, beard matted with how much he’d been crying. She gently set down his mask and pulled back his hood, before reaching up and pulling the man against her chest in a  gentle hug. Nonvul reached out and gripped her tightly, finally letting out a pitiful sob. Volsung hushed him gently, brushing some of his hair back. 

“So. You really were fucking him, weren’t you?” Hevnoraak managed to snort, glancing at Nonvul.

Vokun and Volsung shot the other priest a glare, and Nonvul just shrunk in on Volsung’s chest. 

“I  _ trusted  _ him. I  _ loved _ him,” Nonvul whispered against Volsung’s robes, grimacing. And that tasted all so bitter to him now. To think that he’d seen Miraak as a man like him, someone he’d looked up to and been inspired by, been in love with -

“Well, at least you know the bastard was hiding his plan to  _ kill  _ all of us, you know. Not anything else,” Hevnoraak hissed.

Vokun and Volsung couldn’t disagree. “Maybe everything had just been a lie. At the end, at least. At the end… we know that for certain,” Vokun said quietly, looking down at his lap. “Even if it was truthful to start.”

“Yeah, and what about the rest of them? Did they just… was this  their plan from the start?” Hevnoraak questioned.

Vokun shrugged. “It’s hard to tell. Ahzidal… perhaps. Dukaan… maybe it was to get revenge. Zahkriisos…”

Volsung’s gaze grew cold again. “They betrayed us. It doesn’t matter what they felt. It doesn’t matter what they intended at the beginning. We thought of them as our friends, but clearly that was not the case.” The others could hear the strain in her voice, breaking her usual calmness. Vokun could see tears forming at the edge of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. 

“You’re right,” Vokun muttered after a moment. He swallowed dryly. “They aren’t… our…  _ anything.  _ They are traitors. And tomorrow, we’re going to forget about them.” He pushed himself up from the table, grabbing his mask. He nodded his head in farewell to the other three before stepping out, donning his mask before leaving the room.

Nonvul’s crying had softened, but Volsung did not let her hold up on him. Hevnoraak finally took a deep breath, putting his mask back on as well. “Forget him, Nonvul. He hurt all of us. He never loved us. Any of us. None of them did. Don’t give them the satisfaction of being mourned,” Hevnoraak managed to say, biting back his desire to believe anything but. He had never been kind to any of them, and perhaps it was only by association that any of them put up with his abuse. But he had genuinely liked Miraak, and he hated to admit that he’d truthfully looked up and believed in the man. The feeling of betrayal felt like a rock in his chest, and perhaps it was rightfully so that he kept himself at a distance from everyone else. Miraak, Ahzidal, Dukaan and Zahkriisos had been priests in the same way as Vokun, Volsung and Nonvul had been. And yet, they had betrayed them all the same.

Volsung watched Hevnoraak leave the room, exhaling slowly. Once he was gone, a few tears fell down her own cheeks. She closed her eyes tightly, not letting herself cry any more than that. She gave Nonvul a tight squeeze, before finally letting go. She grabbed his face, turning his head so he could look up at her. “Turn this pain, this sorrow, that  _ love.  _ Turn that into hatred, Nonvul. Hate them. Because they left you. They lied to you. They  _ betrayed  _ you, for themselves. They never told you that they had a plan. They never had any plans to save or omit you from it either. Know they would have slain us as quickly as they did our gods,” she hissed, looking him hard in the eyes.

Tears shimmered in the firelight as Nonvul looked away, more tears falling down his cheeks. Slowly, he tried to inhale and nod. He could tell she was telling herself that as much as she was telling him, but she was right. He pulled away, trying to wipe his tears off on his robes. “We should never have trusted them,” Nonvul whispered, his voice strained.

Volsung wiped her own cheeks quickly, donning her mask. “We cannot fix the past. But let this be a lesson for the future then. We should never have put that much faith and love in others.” She stood up from the table, picking up her knife. 

Nonvul looked up at her as she towered over him, the mask and blade glinting eerily in the sharp light of the fire.

“Goodbye, Nonvul. May your sorrows burn with their funeral pyres.” She turned walking past him to exit the room.

Nonvul watched her leave, before looking at the empty table. There would be no more friends, no more trust. Things were changing. There were wolves amongst sheep now, and even the person he had loved the most had helped lead a whole pocket of traitors. Nonvul picked up his mask, swallowing hard.

All of it had meant nothing. It had been a lie. Miraak was not at all the man he thought he was.

But even after his name had been wiped from the records, from their history, Krosis would never stop grieving him.


	2. Devourer of Souls [M]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vyr discovers his ability to consume dragon souls to the horror of all around him- but is saved by a unlikely individual, giving birth to a figure who would be lost to history forever for his crimes against his masters.
> 
> Characters: Miraak, Alduin  
> Warnings: Character death, violence, child death
> 
> Dovahzul translations as hover text / at end.

He awoke with frost coating his hair. The sound of someone shouting down the street stirred him into consciousness again, pulling his mind out of the dangerous grip of chill and fatigue. Winter was starting to settle in, and it was clear the matted pelts and thread-bear clothes he’d painstakingly collected would not be enough to fight back colder weather. The young boy shifted, crystals of ice flaking from his tangled hair as he slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. He grimaced, feeling the frigid stone under his fingers where his body hadn’t been maintaining the heat. He was cold, but he was  _ alive.  _ That was what mattered.

He pulled the pelts tightly around his shoulders, rubbing his grimy hands against his eyes. His stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he’d only had a stale slice of bread the previous day to eat. He needed to find food today, or he was certain he might not wake up tomorrow. 

“Vyr!”

His green eyes shifted up, looking out around the corner of the small alcove he’d huddled down in for the night. A triad of equally ragged looking kids made their way down the street towards him, their leader clutching a long stick in one hand. 

Fryth, the sort of de facto leader of the village urchins. He was a scraggly boy of 15 or so winters, older than Vyr was, with a messy head of orange hair and a badly crooked nose that he’d broken a few summers back and had never been able to straighten out. Behind him trailed Jonrith, a twig of a boy about Vyr’s age, and Thral, a steely girl who towered over all the urchin boys.

Vyr grimaced. That was right. He was supposed to be up before dawn. He hopped to his feet quickly, throwing the pelts off of his shoulder before shoving them into the corner. He prayed they’d remain there when, or if, he got back.

“I said  _ before sunrise.  _ Does this look like  _ before sunrise  _ to you?” Fyrth snapped, angrily shaking and pointing the end of his makeshift staff towards the vague illumination of the sun behind the clouds.

Vyr took a deep breath before turning to face the others, straightening himself out the best he could despite how cramped his body felt from sleeping on the cold stone ground. “No,” he said, his voice cracking from how dry his throat was.

Fyrth shook his head, stopping a few feet from Vyr. “We know you’re a suck-up with the temple, but the rest of us don’t want to scrub floors like you do,” Fyrth said, reaching out to push Vyr back roughly.

Vyr staggered, but bit back the urge to return the push. He lowered his gaze to the ground, feeling the scalding glare from the other boy. 

“When I say before sunrise, I mean before that big, bright ball of light comes up over the horizon. Nobody else we have can use magic like you, so you being there on time isn’t  _ optional _ ,” Fyrth hissed, backing Vyr into a wall.

Vyr’s jaw tensed, but he simply nodded. 

Fyrth rolled his eyes, pulling away. “Come on. Kolgorr said that old lady Seygef still had food out we might be able to grab with your help. So at least not  _ everything  _ has gone to waste because you decided to sleep in.”

Vyr exhaled in relief once Fyrth started to walk back in the direction he’d come. Vyr crouched down and reached into his pile of pelts, pulling out the ratty satchel that carried everything important to him before he quickly followed after the other three.

 

Old lady Seygef lived on the outermost edges of the village. A dilapidated shack served as her house on the edge of a small farm plot where the brittle old widow prepared what few goods she had to still offer the village and the temple, and where the band of urchins frequently targeted left-out foodstuff. Old lady Seygef was quick to forget and quick to be distracted by just about anything that might pass within line of sight of her fenceline, from neighbors, to crows, to bratty children like themselves.

Though, after the third or fourth time of stealing from her, old lady Seygef had realized that one of the usual urchins lingering along her fenceline or trying to get into her garden was just a distraction, and she’d quickly stopped falling for it. Instead, she’d gotten herself a particularly nasty wolfhound who patrolled her small farm, chasing them out every time they as much as set a toe over the fence. Vyr was happy not to have to run from the damn thing anymore. He wasn’t the fastest, and he’d already been caught once for heckling old lady Seygef after the wolfhound had chased him up a tree. His back still bore the lashmarks from his punishment.

Maybe this time he wouldn’t be the one left for dead.

Vyr crouched down in the bushes next to Fyrth and Thral, waiting for the others to be into position. Jonrith and Kolgorr waited in another bush further down the path, while three others, Mividr, Syk and Rignillen, took up positions as scouts at various spots around the house and up the path. 

Old lady Seygef sat on the porch of her house, rocking in her chair as she worked on patching a hole in her apron. A few baskets rested on a table next to her, covered and filled with bread she’d made the previous day that would be picked up later to be brought into the village. Baking seemed to be the old lady’s only interest anymore, and though the bread was always made from the poorest quality materials, it was more than enough for the urchins. A basket of eggs and some other supplies cluttered up the table as well where she’d been working on making another batch before getting distracted with repairs. Her wolfhound didn’t seem to be at her side, but that didn’t mean the damnable animal wasn’t nearby. 

Somewhere, Syk mimicked a jackdaw’s call, letting those hidden know that the wolfhound was out in the farm field. Old lady Seygef looked up from under her wrinkled brow, scowling as she scanned the roadside next to her house.

“I know you damn kids are out there,” she grumbled, rocking in her chair. She angrily pointed a knobby finger out in the road’s general direction. “Don’t think i’m going to fall for your awful little tricks.” 

Fyrth smirked, looking to Vyr. “Alright, Vyr. You hear that? Time to show her, right?” He said, crooked teeth flashing under his scarred gums.

Vyr stiffened, uneasily looking towards the old lady’s house. His eyes scanned the surroundings, looking for a target. A heap of straw, probably used for the three remaining chickens that strutted around in her field. It was stored out towards the back edge of the field, a little ways from the house. Far enough away to give them a chance to grab the food and run. He just had to get close enough to it now.

Vyr dropped low to the ground, watching old lady Seygef for a moment before he moved along to the next bush. Close, closer… Once he was within range, he closed his eyes and focused. Magicka channeled through his hands, and small flames flickered between his fingers. Once he felt them burn hot enough, he took careful aim and gently urged the fire towards the straw. The small ball of fire flew forward, landing in the straw with a soft ‘thump’. Some of straw slid down in a avalanche of dry grass, but old lady Seygef didn’t seem to notice. Vyr tensed, waiting in uncertain anticipation for the flames to take hold of their new home. A few tendrils of smoke curled out from the straw pile after a moment, before the first signs of flames sprouted from blackening strands. Rapidly, the fire began to spread and consume the hay, more and more smoke starting to billow up.

Old lady Seygef’s nose twitched, and at first she took no notice. By the time she finally turned her head, the whole pile was billowing flames and smoke, and parts of the fence and neighboring plants were on fire as well. She let out a bird-like shriek, grabbing her walking stick before hobbling towards the fire in shock. She picked up a bucket along the way, trying to get over to her well to extinguish the fire.

The urchins didn’t waste time. The whole group bolted towards the table, grabbing everything that was vaguely edible or valuable off of the table and porch in a efficient swarm before darting back towards the hills, clutching their prizes to their chests with giddy smiles on their face. 

Old lady Seygef had seen them though. She shook her cane at them, seeing the kids scurry away with her things. “Don’t think you’ll get away with this!” She screamed, throwing a bucket of water onto the smoldering straw.

 

“Nobody cares,” Fyrth said, splitting up the goods around the circle of urchins. 

“Old lady’s crazy anyways. Absolutely mad. They’ll probably just think she slacked on the loaves this week,” Kolgorr said, picking up one of the bread loaves before taking a bite out of it.

Vyr had already consumed one of his loaves, and he was tempted to dig into another one already. Fyrth had already divided him up extra food for being the one who lit the fire, but Vyr knew he needed to make his rations last as long as possible. With winter rolling in, food would be in shorter supply, and he wasn’t sure how much longer the priests at the temple would be willing to deal with his misbehaving. They were a steady source of food, but Fyrth’s gang was much more ludicrous. 

If there was one thing he was going to eat now, it was the egg. A single, beautiful chicken egg, turquoise blue with brown speckles. A treat Vyr had not had since he’d had a home. 

He got up, moving to shuffle through the heap and pile of debris that made up a corner of the old shack that the kids sometimes holed up in when the guards weren’t looking. Fyrth raised a brow, pausing in his distribution as Vyr returned with a bunch of wood. “What in Oblivion are you doing, Vyr?” He asked.

“Boiling my egg,” Vyr replied simply. He carefully stacked the wood, remembering how he’d seen countless others do it, before gingerly lighting it. Fire curled over the old wood, slowly growing into a real fire.

“If they see the smoke, we’ll be kicked out again,” Jonrith huffed. 

Vyr shook his head, trying to fan it to keep it low. “We’ll be fine,” he insisted. He grabbed the singular pot that had been passed between the urchins for a few years, filling it with water from his waterskin before setting it next to the wood. The others watched with trepid anticipation as Vyr dropped his egg into the water before sitting back, moving to start packing his gains into a strip of cloth to carry with him when the group parted.

“Boiling… your egg?” Syk asked. The young girl leaned forward, staring into the pot. The egg sat unmoving on the bottom, distorted by the water. “What does that mean?” She questioned, scratching at her matted hair.

Vyr hummed in thought, trying  to figure out how to explain what little he understood of it. “You make the water bubble and really hot. Like with tea, I think. And then the egg gets hard. And you can eat  _ all  _ of it. It turns white with a yellow middle,” he said, nodding his head so his wavy black hair bounced.

“How would you know that?” Jonrith snapped, tearing off a chunk of bread to shove it in his gaunt face.

“The people who raised me used to do it,” Vyr replied, shrugging.

“Sounds like horseshit to me,” Rignillen muttered from his spot, cracking his egg open onto a piece of bread before just eating it, shell and all.

Vyr shrugged again, waiting for the water to boil. “If you say so.”

Fyrth returned to passing out the remaining loaves of bread. “Did you hear? They found Salbenl the other morning under the bridge. Froze to death, probably. Or starved.”

Vyr furrowed his brow, glancing to Fyrth. “Really?”

Fyrth nodded. “Yeah. Stiff as a board. Like a block of ice.”

“They did not!” Syk whined, looking crestfallen. 

“I saw them take his body up to the temple yesterday,” Rignillen said quietly, picking a piece of eggshell out from between the few teeth he had.

“That’s the second one of us already, and winter hasn’t even started. Who’s next?” Thral grumbled, pulling her knees up to her chest as she scooched a bit closer to the little fire. 

Vyr grimaced. This year was going to be cold. They could all feel it in their bones. He glanced at the others from behind a curtain of unkempt hair. The fire lit up the sullen faces of his companions, reminding him how thin and malnourished all of them. None of them wore anything better than a few threadbear scraps of clothing and belts, certainly not enough to stop the biting cold. If they could start a fire every night, they’d have a chance, but that always risked them getting chased out. Even just boiling the egg was a risk. Sometimes they looked to the dark woods, but they knew better than to go in there.

Things lurked in there that should be left alone.

Fyrth suddenly slapped his legs, making everyone around the fire jolt. “It’s almost the Day of Offering, right?” Fyrth exclaimed. “We’ll just take from that! They don’t need that much food. There’s no way they’ll miss a little.”

Vyr frowned, but the others at least seemed to be listening. “I don’t think that’ll be…” He began.

“We get it, Vyr. You’re a suck up. You don’t have to join us if you don’t want to, but we’re not sharing with you if you don’t help,” Fyrth said, quickly cutting him off.

A few of the other kids snickered, making Vyr shrink in on himself a bit. “It’s not…”

Fyrth ignored him, continuing to discuss his plan with the others. 

Vyr sighed, closing his eyes before shaking his head. It wasn’t that he was the most willing to work for the temple to get food, it was that he genuinely believed that tangling with them was… unsafe at best. He’d been in the temple. He’d seen what sort of things happened in  there.

Vyr shuddered. Maybe they’d be fine. He tied the cloth closed, making sure the bread and small pile of grains was secure inside before turning his attention back on the water. A few bubbles had begun to form around the edges of the pot, but little else was happening. He picked it up, trying to find a way to balance it on top of the fire so it would heat up faster before he plopped back down. 

Fyrth continued rambling about his far-fetched ideas to rob the temple, and Vyr focused on tuning him out. His battered fingers picked at the edge of his trowsers, trying to scrape a chunk of mud out of the linnen before finally giving up on it. Everything he owned was dirty, and though he longed to bathe he doubted he’d do himself any good if he did. Even as an atmoran, Vyr knew that taking a swim in the freezing river and then getting out with nothing dry and nowhere warm to go was likely a fool’s mistake. For now, he’d just have to endure the itchiness of his skin and the odor of his clothes. 

There was the sound of heavy footfall outside the shack, before the shark bark of a guard. “Hey!” They snapped, striding towards the children with spear in hand.

Immediately, the urchins scattered. Vyr cursed, grabbing his satchel and the brindle of bread as he shoved himself to his feet. He moved to bolt, but his mind snapped back to the egg. Not wanting to lose it, he reached into the pot, and immediately regretted it. The hot water burned, but his fingers quickly curled around the egg. He plucked it out of the water and ran, ducking around side the guard as they tried to wrangle ahold of Syk. Vyr elbowed the man in the gut as he passed, giving Syk enough of a chance to break free too and dart in the other direction.

“Get them! There they go!” The guard hollered to a few others.

Vyr didn’t slow down. He shoved the egg in his bag, ignoring the sting of the burn on his hand. A guard clambered after him, but Vyr was nimble. He managed to shove himself between some fallen wood before climbing over a wall, disappearing out of sight and out of reach of the guard. And soon, he was gone, with a grin on his face and a armful of bread.

 

Vyr had managed to stash most of his food through the village for future safekeeping before returning back to his previous night’s haunt to collect his furs. Unfortunately, he had people waiting for him.

A few guards waited for him there, and before he could turn tail and run, a guard behind him and grabbed a hold of him. 

No, there would be no getting out of this one.

Vyr sat on the stone bench, his legs dangling over it as he waited. Iron manacles kept him from getting up and running, but beyond that he was left unsupervised. The sounds of the usual evening activities echoed through the stone temple, filling the air with gentle hymns and songs. All things considered, it was peaceful, and it was warm.

The sound of footsteps made Vyr lift his head a bit as one of the senior priests entered with a sigh. 

Sylskoll was a older atmoran, a towering man with greying black hair tied back in braids and a messy but short-cut beard. The gold of his priest robes glimmered in the low candlelight, and even under his hood Vyr could see his disappointment. Sylskoll shook his head, pausing in the doorway before walking over to Vyr.

“What did I tell you about hanging around them, young Vyr,” the older man spoke, his voice low and tired.

Vyr sunk in on his seat, fumbling with the shackles as he looked down at the ground guiltily. 

Sylskoll pulled a key off of his belt, moving to unlock the manacles around Vyr’s wrists. “I can’t keep getting you out of these things, especially not when you use  _ magic.  _ You are walking on thin ice, my boy.” He let the metal fall onto the bench. 

Vyr rubbed where the metal had been, licking his lower lip before nodding. “Sorry,  _ Sonaak  _ Sylskoll,” he mumbled. 

Sylskoll looked him over, before motioning for him to follow. “Come.”

Vyr slid off of the bench, following after him. Sylskoll lead him down a few hallways, and Vyr took a chance to eye the decorations as they walked. The temple was, without a doubt, the  nicest building in the village. It was cozy, well sealed, lit with tons of candles and embellished with banners and even rugs. The weaving felt wonderful under his bare feet, especially when the alternative was cold stone. 

“You know, I won’t always be in charge here,” Sylskoll said, not looking down to him. “This village is getting too big. There has been talk of electing a new Mask to take charge here, and when that time comes, I cannot protect you any longer. As it is, some of the priests are displeased enough with the direction you’ve been heading.”

Vyr winced, balling his hands into fists, but he said nothing. 

Sylskoll finally pushed a pair of large doors open, leading them outside to a giant terrace. A huge archway sat at the far end, decorated with offerings left to the god who used it as his perch. 

Volfodaan. Vyr had seen him before, when he had decided to grace their village with his magnificence. He was a glorious white and light blue, like the coldest pieces of ice in the river, and he breathed freezing gales of wind from his maw as if he were winter incarnate. 

His perch now remained empty, the dragon off doing whatever it was that a god did as far as Vyr was concerned.

Sylskoll sat down on a bench that lined the edge of the terrace, motioning for Vyr to sit  next to him. Vyr obeyed, looking up at the tall archway where the dragon might perch. Sylskoll was quiet for a long moment, letting Vyr absorb the grandeur of their surroundings. A altar lay before the arch, and a handful of cages and cells reminded Vyr of the dangers of upsetting the temple and their god. 

“You know that you have always been welcome here, Vyr,” Sylskoll finally said. “You have talent. You have potential. Those street urchins you side with… they have no future. Surely you must know that,” he spoke, looking down to Vyr.

Vyr grimaced, digging his fingers into the edge of the stone bench. 

“They are destined to either toil the fields or to fill Volfodaan’s belly, and I’d prefer not to see you as either of those. I have no doubt that you would be able to become a priest, even. Even without training, you already seem to have quite the grasp on magic from what i’ve heard.”

Vyr swallowed, looking down at the ground. “They are my friends,  _ Sonaak  _ Sylskoll,” he said quietly.

Sylskoll hummed, resting his hands in his lap as he looked over Volfodaan’s arch. “You would find friends here. Friends who do not steal, and who do not live under the eves of other’s houses. You would have food, shelter, clothing, all that you work so hard now to get, but you would not need to take it from ill-gotten sources.”

Vyr’s mind shifted to the Day of Offering that would soon be upon them. Everything that people brought and left before the archway.

“I simply request that you consider your actions, young Vyr. I would hate to see anything happen to you, but i’m afraid there is only so much I can do to protect you if you continue down that path.” Sylskoll got up. “I am sure you know your way out. Try not to get into any more trouble.”

Vyr watched him leave out of the corner of his eye, waiting until the sound of his footsteps had disappeared down the hall before sliding off the bench himself. He turned to look up at the arch one more time before turning to leave.

 

The clamour of the Day of Offering filled Vyr’s ears. The village and all those who lived on the outskirts gathered around the temple with their tithings. The smell of fresh-baked  goods filled the air, and even after eating a loaf of bread before he came the smells still made his stomach growl. 

Everyone was expected to bring something as an offering to their guardian god, and even as a homeless child, he was no exception. Vyr stood in line, eyes cast to the ground in embarrassment that the best he had to offer was the half-boiled egg from three days prior. He’d kept it in a pack of ice he’d pulled from a puddle, so he prayed that it at least hadn’t gone bad. But it felt pitiful when the person in front of him had a beautifully gilded chest and the person behind him had an entire cow. 

Vyr kept scanning the crowd for Fyrth and the others. He hadn’t talked to them or even really  _ seen  _ them since they’d stolen from old lady Seygef’s house. He wasn’t sure if they’d been caught, or if they still planned on trying to steal from the temple. He hoped not. He was starting to wish he’d paid attention to what Fyrth had been saying instead of toning him out, so he knew what to watch for.

The line shifted forward, leading the mass of people and their offerings up a set of stairs around the outside of the building and up to the terrace he’d been on a few nights before. Already, heaps of offerings had been left around the altar and the base of the arch. Food, jewelry, animals, crafts, trinkets, books, magical items, even  _ people  _ had been placed as sacrifices and tithings to Volfodaan. The dragon was nowhere to be seen, but that was not unusual. If they were loyal enough and brought good enough offerings, he was sure to bless them with his presence. 

Sylskoll watched from behind the altar, flanked on either side by junior priests as the younger members of the clergy handled offerings and talking to people. Sylskoll nodded his head to Vyr when Vyr finally reached the front, watching as the boy timidly set his chicken egg on top of a box of some sort of pastry. Vyr felt foolish, but he could tell that Sylskoll at least was pleased to see he had come to offer anything at all. 

As Vyr moved to descend down the stairs, a priest reached out and stopped him. “ _ Sonaak  _ Sylskoll would like you to join him,” the young man said, motioning to the altar. 

Vyr blinked, before nodding, turning back around. He wove his way through the offerings, careful not to knock them over until he could reach Sylskoll.

“A glorious day is it not, young Vyr?” Sylskoll asked, moving to the side so Vyr could just managed to see over the altar.

Vyr nodded, looking out at the heaps of offerings. “I hope my gift wasn’t insulting,” Vyr admitted, a frown tugging at his lips.

Sylskoll chuckled. “You offered what was worth something to you. If it is all you have, then you have done what you can. Any offering is better than no offering at all. To fail to give an offering is the most insulting thing you can do.”

Vyr grimaced. He doubted that Fyrth or any of the others would bring anything. They never had. 

“Have you considered what I said?” Sylskoll asked, watching a farmer try to pull a cow up the last set of stairs in amusement. 

Vyr nodded. “I have,  _ Sonaak  _ Sylskoll.”

“And?”

Vyr pursed his lips, looking down at the altar in front of him. Even cleaned, he could see the stains of blood and the chipping where knives had hit it. “I have considered it,” Vyr replied.

Sylskoll arched a brow, before chuckling. “I see, I see.” 

The farmer cursed at the cow as it suddenly moved forward, causing him to fall over when the rope suddenly went slack. Soft giggles filled the terrace, helping to ease Vyr’s uncertainty for a moment.

“I hope, at least, that you haven’t been up to any mischief,” Sylskoll said, folding his arms behind his back.

Vyr fervently shook his head. “No,  _ Sonaak  _ Sylskoll. I promise,” he said, looking up to the man with wide green eyes.

Sylskoll glanced down at him. “Good. Keep to that,” he said, reaching up to ruffle Vyr’s dirty hair.

Vyr nodded, making a bit of a face as his hair was pushed back into his face. He reached up once Sylskoll had looked away to fix it again, parting it back out of his eyes. As he did so, he noticed movement from across the terrace from among the tithings. He paused, furrowing his brow as he squinted. A hand reached up over the edge of the platform, grabbing the edge of a basket before pulling it down and off. Vyr felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Was that Fyrth and the others? 

Another dirty hand reached up, before a mop of tangled orange hair peeked up, then Fyrth’s soot-covered face. It was.

Fyrth and Vyr met eyes, and immediately Vyr threw him a warning glare. Fyrth glared back, trying to motion for Vyr to stop looking his way before he grabbed a bundle of fruit and slipped back over the edge of the terrace with it.

Vyr snapped his head forward again, stiffening. They needed to stop before someone noticed them. He glanced out of the corner of his eye, seeing Syk this time pop up to grab a tiny bag before disappearing over the edge with it.

Vyr curled his fingers into his fists, trying to keep focused on what people were doing in front of him. There was no way they wouldn’t get noticed.

Lonrith nabbed a wheel of cheese, before attaching a rope to a bigger bag that they dragged over.

“Hey!”

Vyr closed his eyes, tensing. Someone must have seen them. He could hear the sound of the other urchins clamoring as some of the guards hurried down the stairs after them. 

Sylskoll’s head snapped towards the commotion, striding over to the edge of the terrace to see what was going on. Vyr took a deep breath and forced himself to follow.

Most of the gang had scattered in all directions, carrying armfuls and backpacks full of stolen goods as they tried to use the crowd for cover. Confusion broke out among the visitors, making it hard for guards to push through them and their offerings to find where the kids had gone.

Fyrth, on the other hand, had taken a bold route up to the roof of some of the closer-together buildings.

Sylskoll narrowed his eyes. He reached over, sweeping up a bow that was kept at the side of the altar. Vyr’s eyes widened in horror as he knocked it and drew it back, and with a single well-placed aim, the arrow found its mark.

Fyrth disappeared over the edge of a building as the arrow struck him, and soon the guards had closed in around where he’d fallen. Hushed murmuring fell over the crowd as Sylskoll turned away from the village, only glancing down to Vyr with a firm gaze before returning to the altar. “Return to your activities. Let us not allow petty thievery to disrupt us,” he said in a mighty booming voice, and soon people returned to coming up to the altar as if nothing had happened.

Vyr remained at the edge of the platform, watching as the guards began to return with the stolen goods Fyrth had grabbed, and finally his body. They dragged it by the scruff of his battered clothing, giving the deceased boy no dignity.

Vyr’s stomach churned, and he closed his eyes before turning away and returning back to the altar.

Sylskoll waited expectantly for him. “This world has no time for people like that, young Vyr,” Sylskoll said blandly, unphased. “I suggest you do not follow that path.”

Vyr swallowed, biting back the pain in his chest and the tears that tugged at the corner of his eyes. 

A sudden chilly gust made Vyr and everyone else turn their eyes to the sky. A few flakes of snow drifted down, before a gale of blizzard-like wind rushed over the terrace. From the skies descended Volfodaan, causing snow to drift down with each beat of his wings. 

Immediately, everyone stopped what they were doing, falling to their knees as the dragon landed upon his perch.

Vyr was certain he could not press himself far enough into the ground. The beast’s presence sent chills up his spine that he was sure weren’t caused by the ever prevalent cold that surrounded him. 

Sylskoll was the first to lift his gaze to the dragon. “ _[Mu qiilaan hi, Drog Volfodaan. Mu draal daar zahrahmiikke hin brii](x)_ _ , _ ” Sylskoll spoke, arms outstretched to the monster looming over him.

Vyr could feel the earth tremble as the beast hummed, and the tears that he was holding back for Fryth now fell from terror. He could see the faint shadow of the dragon’s head looming over, surveying the things that surrounded them. Ice and chill formed up on his exposed skin, and soon he could feel the dragon’s frigid breath on  _ him.  _ He fought to hold back a whimper of fear, pressing his fingers firmly into the stone until at last Vodfodaan pulled away.

“ _ Geh,  _ your sacrifices are, how would you say…  _ pleasing _ ,” the dragon rumbled, straightening himself out. His claws raked into the stone, sending a cascade of dust raining down to the ground and people below. “ _[Hi lost aama Zu’u pruzah daar eruvos](x)_ _.  _ You are  _ mid aarre _ , servants most loyal.” Vodfodaan let out a content purr, coiling his spined tail around one of the archways. “ _[Drun Zu’u hin zahrahmiikke. Zu’u hind mindok pah tol druna dovah](x)_ _. _ ”

Sylskoll stood, turning to face the crowd in front of him. “Continue! Our great lord Vodfodaan wishes to bask in the glory we bring to him!” He announced. 

Slowly, people began to stand again, bringing up their tributes with great bows now to the dragon watching them.

Vyr took a few minutes to dare right himself. He could feel Vodfodaan’s breath on him, making him shiver violently in his worn clothing.

“ _[Muziil mindok ni drun zu’u kip tol pook](x)_ _ , _ ” Vodfodaan hissed to Sylskoll, bright blue eyes locking on Vyr.

Sylskoll looked between Vyr and Vodfodaan quickly, before reaching out to gently brush Vyr back behind him. Vyr jerked his head to look up the at the dragon frightfully. Was… Vodfodaan mistaking him as a snack? “ _ R[ok ni fah hi naak, Drog Volfodaan. Kul hind mindok. Rok lost dun](x). _ ”

Vodfodaan shook his scales out, making more frost rain down onto the priests below. His blue eyes narrowed, peering at the terrified child behind his priest. “ _[Aan lir meyz ni pruzah sonaak](x)_ ,” Vodfodaan rumbled, his spines raising sharply along his neck.

Sylskoll chuckled. “ _[Aan sizaan dok meyz zok mind do aar, Drog Volfodaan](x)_ _ , _ ” Sylskoll replied.

Vodfodaan hummed, before snorting out a stream of frost.  _ “[Onik koraav](x) _ ,” Vodfodaan replied, flicking the end of his tail. He eyed Vyr, moving to open his mouth, but he was cut off by the rumbling of the clouds above. 

“ _ Vod Fo Daan! _ ”

The dragon bristled, everyone falling quiet again as the voice thundered out. A rival dragon. Everyone turned to watch the sky, the silhouette of another dragon circling somewhere far above. Vodfodaan let out a echoing roar, spreading out his wings. Without a word, he took to the sky in a gale of cold wind, flying to meet his challenger.

People muttered again. Today was… eventful, to say the least. 

Vyr fearfully looked to Sylskoll, reaching out to grip onto the back of the priest’s robes. 

Sylskoll furrowed his brow. He turned to his fellow priests. “Prepare to move people inside in case the worse comes. Do not let people start to panic,” he urged lowly. The priests nodded, starting to spread the message to other clergy before beginning to usher people towards the temple or other safe places.

“Is  _ Drog  _ Vodfodaan going to win?” Vyr asked making Sylskoll look down at him.

Sylskoll nodded. “Do not doubt your god. He will-”

There was a crack, and a ball of fire rained down from above. It crashed into the ground a few feet from the temple, sending embers raining on the now-screaming civilians below. Vyr flinched back, bumping into the altar with wide eyes. Roars echoed out above, and the battle did not linger in the sky for long. Vodfodaan soon came plummeting down, a larger dragon on his tail. The rival dragon was massive, with gleaming red scales and sharp horns. 

“ [_Bo, hi nikriin!_ ](x) _[Zu’u fen du hin zahrahmiikke ol dii](x)! _ ” the new dragon roared, talons extended out.

Sylskoll grabbed Vyr, throwing him to the ground as Vodfodaan narrowly pulled up before the ground. A burst of air battered those still on the terrace, followed by a second blast of heat from the attacker. “We have to get inside,” Sylskoll hissed, getting up as soon as the dragons moved to another part of the village. He dragged Vyr up by his collar, shielding him as he tried to get them around the offerings and into the temple. Vodfodaan and his rival exchanged streams of fire and ice, occasionally diving and swiping at each other. 

People huddled inside the temple, hiding as the dragons battled outside. Sylskoll knelt down not far from the exit to the terrace with Vyr, listening for their god to return to his perch. Vyr gripped Sylskoll’s robes, overwhelmed and terrified. First Fyrth, and now this…?

A roar echoed outside with the sound of screams and breaking houses as one dragon was knocked to the ground. The people inside muttered in panic to each other, the earth shaking with the force of the blows between the gods outside. There was a pause, before Vodfodaan was sent through the wall of the temple.

Stone and debris was sent flying as the rival dragon shoved Vodfodaan through the masonry, using his powerful wings to drive his rival through the ground. Claws gouged into the white dragon’s scales, sending torrents of blood rushing down and into the offerings that had once been left for him.

Vodfodaan squirmed, roaring before breathing out a stream of ice as he tried to escape the other dragon’s grasp. 

Their rival didn’t flinch, exhaling fire in return. The fire won out, and Vodfodaan wailed in pain. “ _ Hin rel oblaan, Vodfodaan _ ,” the dragon snarled. 

Vyr looked up through the cloud of debris as the last rocks settled, watching with wide eyes as the other dragon tore into Vodfodaan’s throat. The frost dragon let out a gargling howl, before he fell silent, head falling with a dull thud as his body fell still.

The rival dragon shook the dust from his scales, blood covering his maw as he pulled his talons out of the fallen dragon’s body. He turned, moving to climb up onto the top of the archway. “[ _Hon dii Thu’um! Zu’u Ninolkrief, hi fen qiilaan Zu’u nu ol drogiil!_](x) ” The dragon roared, before exhaling a stream of scalding fire.

Vyr shakily pushed himself to his feet, looking up at their new god. Sylskoll winced in pain, struggling to get to his feet as well as Vyr nervously stepped forward.

Vodfodaan’s body…

Vyr watched as the dragon slowly began to disintegrate, his scales peeling up and burning away. Others brave enough peered out, watching in shock as Vodfodaan’s body crumbled away. Even Ninolkrief stopped, his red eyes widening in surprise. Vyr stopped just outside the entry to the temple. His body tingled, before it felt like he was on fire. Energy surged into him, making him stagger back with a painful inhale. Vodfodaan’s body burned away to a mere skeleton, and Vyr felt more alive than ever. A faint light shimmered around him for a moment, before fading into his skin.

Silence fell upon the terrace. Ninolkrief’s lips curled back, flashing his fangs as his pupils slitted narrowly. “ _[Hi dua silii! Sunvaar! Hokoron! Paal! Horvutah rok! Hokoron! Rok al dovah!](x)_ ” Ninolkrief howled, flapping his wings violently.

There was loud murmuring amongst the people, and the priests who survived the wreckage looked between each other in fear and confusion. 

Most confused of all was Vyr. He wildly looked around as people started to close in on him, looking between Sylskoll and Ninolkrief. What had just happened…? Vyr understood none of it. His body felt alive, like it had the energy to bound over everyone, but he hardly had any idea as to what he’d just  _ done.  _ And he had a feeling that whatever had happened was not… normal.

“ [ _ Hovutah rok! Nu! Horvutah rok hi meyye! Hi hon Zu’u! _ _ ” _ ](x)  Ninolkrief hissed.

Vyr looked to Sylskoll for explanation. What had he done wrong? What was happening? 

Sylskoll pursed his lips, leaning on the wall, before nodding. “Grab the boy,” Sylskoll said with a heavy sigh. “Whatever he has done… is a unholy act.  _ Drog  _ Ninolkrief, what shall we do with him?” Sylskoll questioned.

Vyr stepped back, which did nothing to distance himself from those moving in to grab him. “No, I didn’t… I don’t know… I didn’t… _mean_ to do anything…” Vyr managed to choke, looking rapidly at the people around him. A priest strode up and grabbed him by the arm, and despite Vyr’s best effort to twist away, the man held tight. “No!”  
Ninolkrief snarled. “ _[Zu’u hind koraav rok ag. Drun rok Bromjunaar. Zu’u fen koraav rok dir us zeymahii](x)_ _,_ _”_ Ninolkrief hissed, lifting his head up in disgust. 

Vyr screamed, kicking fearfully. “I didn’t do anything! I didn’t mean to!” He cried, trying to break free as a second pair of hands grabbed him. 

Ninolkrief narrowed his eyes. “ _ Zu’u  _ will see  _ hi  _ upon the pyre, [kriivah kul](x) ,” he snarled, before Vyr was dragged out of sight.

 

Vyr dug his nails into his arms, leaning into the corner of the cage. The small black box jostled a bit, but Vyr braced himself this time for it so he wouldn’t be knocked over. There wasn’t much space to move anyways- he couldn’t even stretch his legs out fully. 

They were taking him to Bromjunaar. They were taking him to the big capitol city. And he was going to be handed over to the Masked priests, and they were going to sacrifice him. 

Vyr stared blankly at the wall across from him. He could only faintly see it through the cracks in his box. He saw what they did to people at his village’s temple. 

Vyr swallowed down what little bile he had left, knowing full well that if he vomited in his box he’d be trapped with it for the rest of the trip- however long that was. Five days had already passed, and he was only pulled out when they stopped or in the evening. 

They kept him  _ alive,  _ and that was it. Vyr closed his eyes, though little about the world around him changed in doing so. It wasn’t much different than life normally had been, in all reality.

Maybe he should have joined Fyrth. Maybe then he’d have escaped, and maybe Fyrth would be alive too. Vyr pulled his knees to his chest, burying his head against them. Instead, he’d stayed around Sylskoll, and at the end of the day Sylskoll hadn’t even defended him.

But he’d absorbed a dragon’s soul. At least, that was what he’d heard from people talking outside the box. How though? They didn’t seem to know either. It was unheard of, but it was the only explanation passed. What he had done was a crime, a sin beyond all words and understanding. To consume and extinguish the very soul and nature of one of their divines. 

Vyr hated himself for it. He had no control over what he’d done, not even being  _ aware  _ they he could do it, but the idea that he’d destroyed the very soul of the god who had watched over his village since before he’d arrived there as a baby…

A weak sob escaped his hoarse throat again. He was a monster. He had to be. Maybe it was right that he was being taken to Bromjunaar and to the Masked priests, to the dragon council, to… all of it.

Maybe he was supposed to have perished in that fire with everyone else. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to have made it this far. 

Either way, he knew he wouldn’t be alive much longer. He had to make peace with that. Would his soul go to Sovngarde? Or would he end up somewhere else? He wanted to ask the priests that accompanied the cart he’d been loaded onto, but he wasn’t sure if they’d respond to a thing like him.

 

Vyr didn’t dare look up at any of the priests around him. He had heard their names before in tale- Sot, the pale lord of the priests; Nahlot, the silent; Dahmaan, the rememberer; Kras, the sickly; Rovaan, the wanderer; Sivaas, the beast; Gram, of the clouds; Viin, the shining; Gahrot, the thief; Mulaag, the powerful; Ahraana, the injured; and Faaz, the painful. 

And now, each of them had come from every corner of the land to watch him die. Vyr made no resistance as he was pushed out into the center of a large stone circle. Pillars stretched up around every side of it, including seats for people- and though humans had come to watch his demise, this was a show for the dragons.

Vyr dared to raise his eyes, and he was met with the gaze of at least three dozen dragons. They perched up on the rocks and pillars like gargantuan birds, sneering as Vyr was dragged towards the stone pike in the center. More dragons circled overhead, some looking for perches while others seemed content just to glide. If  _ content  _ could describe any of them. All of the dragons let out furious roars and snarls when they saw Vyr, rattling their scales as they sneered insults and curses towards him.

Even with their masks on, Vyr could feel the burning gaze of the Masked priests, who waited around the blackened, soot covered pillar for him. Sticks had been piled around it, and fire curled around each priest’s hand.

Vyr tried not to look to what he was about to be brought to, to the end he was about to face. He tried to fight his tears, though he was unsure if he should face his death bravely when he had committed such a crime.

“ _ A[g rok! Al sunvaar!](x) _ ” A dragon roared.

“ _[Aus fah bein revak dov!](x)_ ” Another howled.

The hatred in the voices of the dragons made Vyr’s stomach twist. He had committed a crime against his gods, and they had gathered to see him perish.

“ _[Mey joor, mindol daar rok aal kipraan nau rii se dov! Vol! Krosis! Un zeymah!](x)_ _ ” _

“ _[Joor kiir! Paak!](x)_ ”

“ [ _ Aal thuri kipraan nau siliil! Nahkriin fah un mahlaan zeymah! _ ” ](x)

Vyr dropped his eyes to the ground, swallowing hard as he was pushed up against the pillar. The gripped his wrists roughly, tying them to the post before the priests of his home back away from him. Vyr felt tears start to slide down his cheeks, trying to steady his frightened breathing.

Sot approached him, his intricate ivory mask staring blankly down at the young boy as fire swirled around either of his hands. “Our great lords demand penance for your regressions against the divine. To dare devour the soul of a god is to commit a blasphemy which we have no words for, boy. Whatever dark magic you possess that allowed you to do so, or whatever sort of monster you may be, will be wiped from this world in the fires of our gods,” Sot said, his voice smooth and merciless.

The wingbeats of Nilnolkrief’s descent and the cloud of dust that kicked up as the giant dragon landed behind Sot made Vyr let out a weak sob, digging his nails into his palms as he tried to brace himself for what was to come. 

“Look upon the face of your death,  _ joor. [Aal nii folook hi erei siliil dua](x), _ ” Nilnolkrief sneered, bearing fangs like swords. He inhaled, scales rattling as fire built up in his throat.

Vyr bit his lip hard, choking on his sob as he lowered his head from the fire.

But it never came. He heard the fire die down in Nilnolkrief’s throat, and suddenly all of the jeering from the dragons died down to silence. Even with his eyes closed, Vyr could see the change in lighting as something dark passed overhead. He dared to crack a watery eye open. Sot and Nilnolkrief stepped away from Vyr, before Sot fell to the ground in the most humble of bows. Even Nilnolkrief lowered himself in a dragon’s equivalent of a bow, and soon the cause came into Vyr’s view.

A great black dragon, so immensely gargantuan that Vyr had no way to describe the sheer size of the beast came to rest on top of the temple, dwarving the whole building under one talon. The stone creaked under his weight as he craned his neck, scalding red eyes staring down at Vyr. Smoke rolled from the World-Eater’s nostrils, filling the arena with the searing smell of sulfur.

“ [ _ Daar kiir wo du rii _ _? _ ](x) ” he spoke, his voice shaking every stone in Bromjunaar. 

“ _ Geh, Thuri _ ,” Nilnolkrief said, even his voice trembling in fear. “ _[Rok dua Volfodaar mindin Zu’u kriina rok ko grah. Volfodaar lost meyz qeth](x)_ _! _ _ ” _

Vyr’s heart pounded in his chest, staring up in awe and fear at the World-Eater.

Alduin did not take his gaze off of Vyr. “ _[Stin rok](x)_ . ”

Everyone looked to Alduin in shock. Nilnolkrief’s spines flexed in confusion.

“ _ Stin rok, Thuri? Joor mindol- _ ” Nilnolkrief began.

Alduin snapped his head towards Nilnolkrief. In a flash, the giant dragon’s teeth had bit down onto the smaller dragon, crushing much of his neck and upper body in one swell bite. Nilnolkrief didn’t get a chance to even cry out in pain before his body went limp in Alduin’s maw. The World-Eater dropped the dragon’s body just feet from Vyr, causing another wave of dust to kick up around Vyr.

Vyr grimaced, but once more he felt the tingling and burning of energy under his skin. The feeling life and power rushed into him, making him tense against his bindings. Energy seared his throat and a new understanding filled his mind, and unable to control himself Vyr released it in a mighty, almost fearful scream of ‘ _ yol _ ’.

The fire he spat was far brighter than any other atmoran had managed, even after many seasons of training. There was a inhale of shock amongst man and dragon alike, all onlookers recoiling from the plume of searing fire except for Aludin.

The World-Eater watched unflinchingly, before letting out a earthquake-like chuckle. His red eyes narrowed at the tiny mortal form before him, who now was sputtering from the burning sensation of fire leaving his throat. “ _[Stin rok. Drun rok nid ahraan. Zu’u hind koraav ok dun](x)_ … cultivated,” the dragon rumbled, exhaling a steady stream of black smoke. He stretched his wings out, before rising up into the sky as suddenly as he had come.

Vyr watched him in awe, his black hair tangling in the wind kicked up by Alduin’s wings.

 

When their eyes met, before that final blow, the World-Eater could see that there was no pity in those eyes, no guilt, no grief.

At least, the World-Eater knew, he had picked his successor well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mu qiilaan hi, Drog Volfodaan. Mu draal daar zahrahmiikke hin brii - We bow to you, Lord Volfodaan. We pray these sacrifices are to your satisfaction.
> 
> Hi lost aama Zu’u pruzah daar eruvos - You have served me well this year.
> 
> Drun Zu’u hin zahrahmiikke. Zu’u hind mindok pah tol druna dovah - Bring me your sacrifices. I wish to know all that is brought to me.
> 
> Muziil mindok ni drun zu’u kip tol pook - Your people know not to bring me food that stinks.
> 
> Rok ni fah hi naak, Drog Volfodaan. Kul hind mindok. Rok lost dun - He is not for you to eat, Lord Volfodaan. The boy wishes to learn. He has skill.
> 
> Aan lir meyz ni pruzah sonaak - A vermin makes not a good priest.
> 
> Aan sizaan dok meyz zok mind do aar, Drog Volfodaan - A stray dog makes the most loyal of servants.
> 
> Onik koraav - A wise observation.
> 
> Bo, hi nikriin! Zu’u fen du hin zahrahmiikke ol dii - Fly, you coward! I will devour your sacrifices as mine!
> 
> Hon dii Thu’um! Zu’u Ninolkrief, hi fen qiilaan Zu’u nu ol drogiil! - Hear my Voice! I am Ninolkrief, and you will bow to me now as your master!
> 
> Hi dua silii! Sunvaar! Hokoron! Paal! Horvutah rok! Hokoron! Rok al dovah! - He devoured his soul! Monster! Enemy! Foe! Catch him! Enemy! He destroyed a dragon! 
> 
> Hovutah rok! Nu! Horvutah rok hi meyye! Hi hon Zu’u! - Capture him! Now! Catch him you fools! You listen to me!
> 
> Zu’u hind koraav rok ag. Drun rok Bromjunaar. Zu’u fen koraav rok dir us zeymahii - I wish to see him burn. Bring him to Bromjunaar. I will see him die before my brothers.
> 
> kriivah kul - Murder child.
> 
> Ag rok! Al sunvaar! - Burn him! Destroy the monster!
> 
> Aus fah bein revak dov! - Suffer for fouling the divine (being) of the dragon.
> 
> Mey joor, mindol daar rok aal kipraan nau rii se dov! Vol! Krosis! Un zeymah! - Foolish mortal, to think that he may feast on the soul of the dragon! Horror! Sorrow! Our brother!
> 
> Joor kiir! Paak! - A mortal child! Shame!
> 
> Aal thuri kipraan nau siliil! Nahkriin fah un mahlaan zeymah! - My the tyrant feast on your soul! Revenge for our fallen brother!
> 
> Aal nii folook hi erei siliil dua - May it haunt you until your soul is consumed.
> 
> Daar kiir wo du rii? - This is the child who consumed a soul?
> 
> Rok dua Volfodaar mindin Zu’u kriina rok ko grah. Volfodaar lost meyz qeth - He consumed Volfodaar after I slayed him in a battle. Volfodaar was turned to bone!
> 
> Stin rok- Free him.
> 
> Stin rok. Drun rok nid ahraan. Zu’u hind koraav ok dun - Free him. Bring him no harm. I wish to see his skills...


	3. The Night We Met [E]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations, presumably, occur in dovahzul.
> 
> Nonvul [Krosis] and Miraak find some privacy in a hidden hot spring. Miraak fumbles with his emotions, and things get steamy.
> 
> Characters: Nonvul [Krosis] and Miraak  
> Warnings: Sex, Anal Sex

The night air was pleasantly warm- a sure sign of summer’s long-awaited arrival. Crickets chirped and sung in the evening air, and the bright light of the auroras and the moons made walking without torches or magic possible. 

Which was convenient for the two priest who had no interest in swaths of followers or servants flocking to their sides upon seeing the two outside. If someone really wanted to find them, it would be possible- but until then, they would be left in the most privacy their positions would ever truly allow. It was a rare moment neither Nonvul nor Miraak wanted to pass up.

The dirt crunched under their feet as they traveled down the rarely-trodden path to their destination- a well-hidden hot spring Nonvul used as his personal getaway when he had the chance. Few knew of it, and fewer visited it. It wasn’t a particularly ideal spot for more than a few people - the rocky pit wasn’t more than fifteen feet wide at its widest, and only got to be shoulder-deep for most atmorans. But it was a comfortable spot for Nonvul and a few others to relax and talk away from the prying ears of rivals or the constant buzz of followers. 

“You’ve picked a fine time to visit, Sonaak Miraak. Though I must admit - I find the warmth of the springs most enjoyable in the depth of winter,” Nonvul mused, carefully stepping around some sharp lava rocks in the darkness.

Miraak carefully followed, his eyes locked on the ground in uncertainty. The last thing he wanted to do was make the wrong step and slip, or brush up against most of the rocks there. He’d done it already, and the blood on his ankles reminded him of how damn sharp the rocks were. Nonvul had clearly wandered this maze many times; he walked with confidence and hardly seemed to actually look at where he was walking. Miraak just wished the younger man would slow down a little, because he certainly did not know the area like Nonvul did. “Solstheim is still as cold as ever- if you wish to be in the snow, I’m sure we can arrange for you to visit my temple to the north. Even in the summer, you will find it remains quite cold,” Miraak chuckled in reply, trying his best to keep an eye on the ground through the slits of his mask.

Nonvul’s head turned just enough to peer at Miraak from the very corner of his mask slits, a smile appearing behind it. “I would be honored to visit your temple, Sonaak Miraak, for any reason. I have heard your temple is the most beautiful of them all - I would love to visit it if you would allow me to. I’m afraid I have traveled little, as you can imagine. Almost all of my priorities and work have been here since I joined your ranks, but I have heard that some of you travel quite often.”

Miraak ducked under a low branch, pushing it aside as well with the end of his staff. “Mm, some of us do. Dahmaan used to spend more time traveling than he did in his own temple I heard, before his health took a turn for the worst. Others do not. In the four summers Nahkriin has been in our ranks, I don’t think i’ve heard of him leaving his post besides to travel to Bromjunaar,” Miraak grunted.

Nonvul tilted his head a bit, picking up his pace for a moment so he could make a small leap up a rocky ledge. “Really? I cannot imagine wasting such possibility by remaining sedentary. If I wished to remain in one temple forever, I would not have taken such a position,” Nonvul paused. “If it isn’t wrong of me to say, of course,” he added, a edge of concern to his low voice.

Miraak waved a hand dismissively as Nonvul looked back and waited on the ledge above, swiftly following behind him. “Perhaps in the presence of the other priests, but I care not. Nahkriin dislikes humans as oil dislikes water. His interest and purpose aligns with the gods, and the gods alone.”

Nonvul let out a low hum of thought, turning back to the path. “Would you not say that our purposes align with our gods?” He questioned, his interest genuine. 

“Not in the same way Nahkriin’s does. Nahkriin would see all of mankind burn with little remorse if it pleased our gods. You, on the other hand, perhaps care for your people as much as you care for those we serve.”

Nonvul paused, tightening his grip on his staff. Miraak almost bumped into him at the abruptness of his hault. “Is that wrong?” Nonvul asked with a pang of panic.

Miraak snorted. “Mm, it would depend on who you ask. Hevnoraak would say that it is - but that is why you should never listen to him on  _ anything. _ ”

Nonvul shifted, and Miraak could sense the uncertainty. “Do  _ you  _ believe that it is wrong?”

Miraak paused. It was clear Nonvul prized Miraak’s opinion and input highly - and he seemed concerned that his stance may not be what Miraak agreed with. Miraak lifted up his staff, swatting Nonvul on the thigh just hard enough to sting with the butt of the staff. “If I disliked how you handled things, I would hardly return to examine your progress, would I?” Miraak scoffed.

Nonvul yelped in surprise, jumping away to try to avoid another hit. “You could be moulding me!” Nonvul exclaimed, but his voice returned to its usual mirthful pitch that made Miraak relax again.

“If I were, I would be doing a poor job of it. I have hardly tried to steer you in another direction. I simply wish to see you succeed. You were chosen to carry the mask of  _ honorable  _ for a reason. I have no interest in turning you into something else. If I wasn’t interested in the gifts you had brought with you to begin with, I believe I would just…” Miraak reached out, pulling his staff around Nonvul’s front. He hooked the shaft under the man’s neck, pulling back just sharp enough to catch and pull Nonvul up to his chest. “Kill you now. Maybe bury you in a hole somewhere. Or leave you out for the wolves to pick at,” he teased.

Nonvul grunted, reaching up in mild discomfort to push the staff back. Miraak allowed him to, lowering his arms again as Nonvul reached up to rub his neck. “Would you really, Sonaak Miraak?”

Miraak lowered his staff again, dropping the end until it rested on the ground. He gave a noncommittal shrug, making the gold scales of his robes clink. “Perhaps I would. Perhaps I wouldn’t.”

Nonvul rolled his eyes under his mask, starting ahead again. “I… have heard rumors that Sonaak Hevnoraak was the one who removed Sonaak Viin from this world,” Nonvul said hesitantly.

“Do you believe it?” Miraak asked simply.

Nonvul furrowed his brow. Another question, as always. “I would say that it is hard to find a reason to discredit such a rumor,” he decided to answer.

“And I would have to agree,” Miraak replied. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure himself if the rumor was true or not - but Hevnoraak certainly was not trying too hard to deny it. Konahrik aggressively discouraged such in-fighting and treachery, but Hevnoraak was not the sort of person who cared about the rules.

At last, the two arrived at their destination. Nonvul pushed aside a few of the bushes before revealing the small, well-hidden spring nestled comfortably at the face of a small cliff. Between the boulders and the foliage, the hot spring was well protected from prying eyes, and at this time of night it was almost certain that nobody would be in the remote vicinity. It lacked many of the alterations some of the hot springs in Nahkriin’s territory had, but Nonvul had taken his time to fix it so that there were a few places to sit, a way to get in and out, and a way to funnel a bit of cold water into the pool from a higher up pond. 

Nonvul turned to Miraak once they entered  the small clearing surrounding the pool, and Miraak could tell just from his posture that the man was smiling. “My personal getaway. I hope that it is acceptable to you, Sonaak Miraak. I know that you are used to far nicer places, so I must apologize for my rather humble hobble,” he said with a bow, moving his arm out to the side so that Miraak could go ahead of him.

“Privacy is a luxury that no bath in Solstheim can offer me, especially like this,” Miraak said, walking to the far side. He rested his staff against the gangly dead branch of a tree before slowly beginning to disrobe himself, gingerly hanging his mask and his clothing up so they would not get dirty. Nonvul did the same on the other side of the pool, and when both were done they carefully lowered themselves into the hot water. 

Nonvul let out a sigh of relief, not at all bothered by the warmth of the water. It took Miraak a few more seconds to get in, and part of him had to just force himself into it out of pride. But gods, was it worth it. Miraak sunk down into the water, letting it come up to his chin with his own relaxed exhale. His long black hair floated out around his head for a moment, before he came back up and shook it out.

Nonvul chuckled, bringing a hand up to shield himself from the water. “Is it an acceptable temperature for you, Sonaak Miraak? I can bring some cold water down if it’s too hot,” Nonvul offered, motioning to the makeshift pipe that could be pulled down by a rather ragged length of rope.

Miraak shook his head, bringing his hands up to wring out his curly black hair. “It is plenty comfortable, I assure you,” he replied, sitting down on one of the ledges Nonvul had made. He paused for a moment, bringing his hair around to rest on one shoulder. “And… you do not need to be so formal with me here. It is just you and I. Just Miraak will do.”

Nonvul had been in the process of idly looking around when Miraak had spoken, causing him to whip his head to look at Miraak in surprise. Miraak could just barely see the younger man’s blue-grey eyes light up in a sort of bewildered reverence, before he bowed his head forward. “I-if that is acceptable to you. I apologize then in advanced if I say it anyways - i’m afraid i’m unused to such informalities, especially to someone as great as you.”

Miraak snorted, leaning back against the edge of the pool as he let the warmth sink into his bones. “You do not need to flatter me either.”

Nonvul lifted his head a bit, just enough to see Miraak past his hair. “I am not simply trying to  _ flatter  _ you, So- Miraak,” Nonvul corrected himself quickly, shifting, “I am saying that truthfully. You are, without a doubt the greatest priest of our time- perhaps that there has ever been.” Nonvul looked down again, watching his dim reflection in the water. “And I am so incredibly honored that you have continued to visit me. And I must give you a thousand thanks for offering me your tutelage, and for taking time out of your many important tasks to see to my progress. Truly, I feel as though a god has come to watch over me.” Nonvul bowed his head further, strands of his hair dipping into the water as he did so.

Miraak had… not been expecting that. His eyes widened a bit in surprise, pausing with one finger under his chin as he watched Nonvul remained bowed over the water. The sentiment stirred that same feeling Miraak had every time he’d seen Nonvul, and once more he wasn’t sure what to make of it. But the honesty Nonvul presented him was… truthful, and from the heart. And certainly, it was more than anyone else had given him. Slowly, Miraak shifted, sensing the tension of uncertainty again in Nonvul because of his delayed reply. “... When Sivaas had passed and it was time to choose her replacement, many of the lower priests were hesitant in placing your name for consideration because of your age. But, unlike others, you came with a rather… shining recommendation from your patron.”

Nonvul shifted, lifting his head finally from the steamy water. He leaned back with a heavily furrowed brow, shaking his head just enough to get the condensation out of his face again.

“I don’t believe even Sonaak Konahrik had known of anyone else who had warranted such a thing, and even without it, looking at your list of accomplishments and how highly regarded you were by your people the vote to choose you was unanimous. You had the makings of someone great. You had everything that would be worth nurturing, worth instilling my time in. I would be foolish not to see to your advancement, and others are foolish for not tending to it as well,” Miraak continued. 

Nonvul’s fingers curled around the edge of his seat, fingers pressing into the warm rock. He stared at Miraak for a bit longer in silence, before hanging his head and giving another not. Miraak watched, tilting his head a bit at the action. “I cannot put into words how much that means to me,” Nonvul managed, sounding as if he might be fighting back tears. “It is a honor greater than can be described.”

Miraak sunk into the water a bit, closing his eyes. “I am certain that, should you listen to my advice and continue your current path, you will no doubt become as loved.”

Nonvul managed to chuckle. “I could only dream. I think it would be rather difficult for me to aspire to the status of being akin to a god.”

Miraak snorted. “Heretic’s talk,” Miraak scoffed, though his tone of voice made it clear he didn’t disagree.

Nonvul sunk down into the water himself, running a hand through his hair as he finally started to relax. “If such is heretic’s talk, then a heretic I shall be. Even if such blasphemies can only be spoken in the darkness of night, I dare say that you must be a god, and I must be blessed to have met you. And in truth, I think it might be hardly fitting that you serve under the others if you are kin to them. Should we not serve you as well?” Nonvul questioned.

“Enough,” Miraak said suddenly, stiffening. Nonvul flinched. “You know they would have you burn for such words. Do not say them again.”

Nonvul paused, frowning. “...Would you turn me in?”

Miraak blinked. “Of course not,” he grunted. “But I do not wish to risk your death. It would…” He trailed off. The thought of Nonvul’s death… made his chest  _ hurt _ . Miraak’s green eyes darted off to the side, a sudden look of honest hesitation on his face when no word came up to describe the retching feeling that occured in his heart.

The pause caught Nonvul by surprise. “My death would…?” He repeated carefully, trying to watch Miraak’s face as closely as possible without outright staring at him.

Miraak felt Nonvul’s gaze on him, and it made him shift in visible discomfort. He turned his head away, hiding his face behind a curtain of curled hair as he turned to look out at the valley below instead. He focused on the stars on the horizon, on the dancing auroras, on  _ anything else _ for a moment.

It wasn’t a good place to leave off, and he felt foolish for it, but he hadn’t realized that he didn’t  _ know  _ what to say about that.

Nonvul bit his lower lip, pulling his gaze away when he realized that it was making Miraak uncomfortable. “Don’t… don’t worry about it, alright Miraak?” Nonvul whispered. “I won’t. I won’t talk about it with anyone. I’m sorry if I’ve made you upset.”

Miraak watched the stars shimmer behind a curtain of blue and green. “...It…” He trailed off again. It made him upset to think of Nonvul’s death. Was that odd? Did he need to know that? The corner of his mouth twitched a bit.  _ Others  _ didn’t need to know that, if nothing else.

Nonvul tilted his head slightly. The single word  _ it  _ carried a tension to it Nonvul hadn’t heard in Miraak’s voice before, and it made him curious. But Miraak clearly did not want to continue the conversation, or at least needed a moment. So instead of prying, Nonvul resigned himself to the water. He slid off the edge of where he sat, moving to a deeper part of the water so he could dunk himself under it.

Miraak turned his head to watch Nonvul disappear for a few moments, before he resurfaced with a gasp for breath and a shake of his head. He wiped his face off with a hand, trying to get a bulk of the water off before stretching. Miraak had been trying not to pay too much attention to the other man since they’d removed their garments, but in that moment, Miraak found himself staring. Staring at the way the water rolled over his shoulders, the way the moonlight lit the muscles of his back, the way that he turned his head with that stupid look that he’d caught so rarely when he’d had a chance to see the man without his mask-

Miraak’s breath hitched sharply, pulling back in his sitting position when he realized what he was doing. He drew his jaw tight. He’d denied it plenty before, but the growing stiffness between his legs was a answer to a question he had been afraid to ask himself. Miraak adjusted how he was sitting, trying to feign disinterest as Nonvul returned to his seat.

Perhaps feigning  _ too  _ much. Nonvul frowned, noticing how Miraak was looking away to the valley below. “Are you displeased with this?” Nonvul questioned, a sadness to his voice that made Miraak angry at himself.

“No,” Miraak said, shaking his head a bit as his mind frantically searched for an excuse. Usually, it would take him no effort to play things off, but suddenly now he found himself struggling to come up with words at all. He was stumbling around like a buffoon, and it was very much… not what Miraak was used to. “I believe the heat has just gotten to me,” Miraak managed to say.

“I can cool the water. Or perhaps you should take a moment and step out. We can leave if you would wish,” Nonvul said quickly, worry now adding into his voice.

Gods damn it. Miraak tried not to look at Nonvul, desperately trying to ignore the twitch his cock just gave. He moved his knuckles up in front of his mouth, pretending to rest his elbow on the outer edge of the pool. “I’ll be fine. I just… need a moment,” Miraak muttered, berating himself for suddenly falling apart.

Nonvul had never seen Miraak so… distraught? Inconsistent? Uncertain? Nonvul slid off his seat again, wading over to Miraak. “Sonaak Miraak, what is troubling-” he began, reaching out to put his hand on Miraak’s shoulder in concern.

Miraak tried to flinch away from him, and Nonvul reached in to try to make sure Miraak didn’t fall or bolt. And somewhere in the sudden exchange of movement, Nonvul’s leg managed to brush against the stiffness between Miraak’s, and the two froze.

Miraak’s breath hitched sharply, and when Nonvul’s eyes widened and he too froze Miraak knew he was done for. He closed his eyes tightly, and now he was certain it was going to be the heat that got to him when the extra heat from his scalding blush added to the muggy spring air. Miraak wasn’t even sure what to expect from this, other then  _ disaster.  _ But there was no way that Nonvul hitting his shameful erection wasn’t going to lead to humiliation.

Nonvul… wasn’t fully sure what to think either. It took him a second to process what he’d brushed against, but the way Miraak’s body arched was more than enough to tell him. Nonvul’s face turned equally red, and he couldn’t bring himself to move away immediately. 

The two remained frozen- Miraak seated while Nonvul stood almost uncomfortably close in front of him. Finally, Miraak managed to break the silence.

“Please don’t… tell anyone. I’m sorry,” Miraak managed to choke, grimacing as he turned his head away in shame. His mind reeled with shame and anxiety, already running through thousands of worst-case scenarios that would come out of this, scenarios that Miraak had never even  _ considered  _ until now - now that he realized his feelings towards Nonvul and immediately failed in hiding them.

“I-I won’t. I would never,” Nonvul replied back swiftly, a look of concern on his face. He pulled back slightly, his grip on Miraak’s shoulder loosening, but then he paused. “I... “ He paused, trying to find his words. “Did…  _ I…  _ Cause this…?” Nonvul dared to whisper. He doubted that, no matter how foolish he was, it would be as bad as what Miraak was going through right now.

The question made Miraak shrink in more on himself in shame, and he couldn’t even manage to provide anything but a small nod.

Nonvul wasn’t sure if the steam was just making it worse, or if he really felt that strongly to Miraak’s answer that he was starting to feel light headed. Nonvul looked away for a moment, nodding himself. He whetted his lower lip, his mind scrambling through his choices and their consequences, before he looked back to Miraak.

The other priest hadn’t dared to move. His eyes remained squeezed shut, just waiting for Nonvul to pull away so he could try to retreat in shame and figure out how to dig himself out of this. Instead of pulling away though, he felt Nonvul move closer. The younger priest carefully leaned into him, putting one knee at his side so he could lean on the ledge Miraak sat on before gently cupping Miraak’s face in his hands. Miraak’s breath caught, closing his eyes tighter. He couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t-

Miraak felt Nonvul’s lips press slowly, softly, against his. Miraak’s eyes snapped open, and the world felt like it fell still. His breathing stopped, and he felt like his heart leapt up into his throat.

Even after taking a dunk in the water, Nonvul’s lips tasted subtly like juniper berries. He was gentle, and everything about it felt… so much different than any kiss he’d had before. Nonvul’s eyes were closed, but there was a look of calm bliss on his face that made Miaak’s chest tighten. Nonvul gently tilted his head into the motion, making both of them inhale sharply for a moment. The softness of Nonvul’s hands on his cheeks, the way his lips parted and gently pulled over Miraak’s, the texture of his beard, the weight of his body…

Even after Nonvul broke away, Miraak had forgotten to breath. His wide-eyed gaze just lingered on Nonvul in shock, scanning the other priest’s features in the dim light for some sort of answer. Nonvul’s own eyes slowly opened, that damn softness in them once more as he gazed down at Miraak. The serenity on Nonvul’s face very quickly broke with a goofy smile, and Nonvul had to lower his head down to the side to let out a low chuckle. The grip on Miraak’s face softened, but nonetheless remained. “You look like I may have stabbed you in the back,” Nonvul whispered, his eyes crinkling at the corners with joy.

Miraak finally remembered to breathe, taking a ragged inhale. He closed his eyes, turning his head away in embarrassment. Nonvul let him, but he didn’t remove his hands from Miraak’s face. “I... I’ve… That was… new,” Miraak managed, hating himself again for bumbling over it.

Nonvul chuckled again. “A kiss? You’ve never kissed anyone before? Surely you’ve kissed a harem girl before-” Nonvul began.

Miraak huffed, looking back at Nonvul with a pout. “No, not a kiss,” he grumbled, cheeks searing under Nonvul’s fingers. “I have just never… kissed another man before… nor has any kiss i’ve ever had felt like…  _ that. _ ” Miraak looked away again, swallowing hard.

Nonvul’s gaze softened as he slowly settled himself in Miraak’s lap now that he had Miraak’s attention. Hesitantly, Miraak accepted his weight, nervously bringing his hands up to help balance Nonvul by holding his hips. He could feel his length brush up against Nonvul’s skin, and sometimes he could feel the other man’s member brush his leg as well. The sensation and thoughts made Miraak’s heart race and his insides curl. “Is that bad…?” Nonvul asked quietly, bringing a thumb up to gently rub Miraak’s cheek.

The touch made Miraak’s heart ache, and he couldn’t resist but to lean into it. He closed the eye on that side. “No,” Miraak managed to whisper back. “It’s not.”

Nonvul’s heart fluttered. He slowly moved his thumb down to run over Miraak’s lips, tracing one of the scars that traversed them. “Would you like me to kiss you again?” Nonvul whispered, leaning in closer.

Miraak’s gaze returned to Nonvul, his own reverence in them this time. “Yes,” Miraak replied, his voice hardly audible.

When Nonvul’s lips met Miraak’s again, Miraak kissed back. His fingers curled into Nonvul’s sides, leaning forward until their chests pressed together. Nonvul kept one hand on Miraak’s face while another slid down to his shoulder to support him while he deepened their kiss. His tongue darted out to see if Miraak would allow him access, and almost immediately he could feel his tongue brush over Miraak’s sharpened teeth. Miraak leaned back against the stone, allowing Nonvul to lean forward as the two broke into needy kissing. Nonvul let out a low groan as Miraak bit his lower lip, making him dig his nails into the other man’s shoulder. He could feel his own member stiffen, brushing every now and then against Miraak’s. 

Miraak finally broke from the kiss, moving to kiss Nonvul’s neck passionately. Nonvul’s eyes fluttered, tilting his head to the side as Miraak occasionally scraped his teeth over his skin as well.  Nonvul’s hand slid up Miraak’s cheek to his hair, tangling his fingers in his braids and pulling him closer into the crook of his neck. 

In return, Nonvul reached down between their bodies, fumbling until he’d managed to grab both of their members in his hand. Nonvul’s cheeks burned again upon feeling Miraak’s size. Miraak wasn’t the biggest of the atmorans, but he was certainly large, and his member reflected that. Nonvul could hardly fit his and Miraak’s in his hand at once, and if this had been his first time he doubted he’d had managed it. 

Miraak hissed against Nonvul’s skin, his hips bucking sharply as Nonvul brought their members together. He pressed his face against Nonvul’s chest, digging his nails into the man’s sides. Nonvul couldn’t help but smirk a bit, slowly dragging his hand up their shafts with a low groan. He let his hand pause where his shaft ended, slowly swiping his thumb up over the top of Miraak’s to make up for the difference in length. Miraak’s eyes fluttered, grinding his hips back slowly. 

Was this wrong of him? To lay with another man like this? To enjoy the feeling of Nonvul’s cock rubbing against his own?

Miraak furrowed his brow a bit, nuzzling his face between Nonvul’s pecs. The hand in Miraak’s hair pulled him closer, Nonvul’s thumb sometimes moving forward to stroke against his temple. Miraak slid a hand up Nonvul’s back, pushing his palm flat into the small of his back to hold groin closer. He moved to bite Nonvul’s chest, making Nonvul yelp in surprise. Nonvul’s hips bucked sharply, making Miraak grin before he moved to bite into Nonvul’s neck.

“Shit-” Nonvul cursed, almost losing his grip on Miraak at the spasm of pleasure. 

The young priest closed his eyes, tilting his head back again as he gave their members a sharp tug. His curse turned into a moan tangled with pain as Miraak’s razor-sharp fangs sunk into his skin, and immediately Miraak could taste the sweet flavor of iron he’d become so accustomed to. Their hips rocked sharply in rhythm with Nonvul’s hand, both of them leaning hard into each other for support. Miraak left a trail of blood from the bite mark up Nonvul’s neck, leaving a trail of welts where his teeth scraped just hard enough to dent his skin.

“C-careful,” Nonvul managed to breath, his breath catching in his throat. “T-they’ll see that-”

Miraak let out a low growl, kissing the underside of Nonvul’s jaw. “I’ll heal it. They won’t,” he breathed, pulling away so he could kiss Nonvul deeply again.

Nonvul tried to ignore the taste of his own blood, focusing instead on sliding Miraak’s hand down from his hip to his ass. Miraak tensed, hesitating in their kissing. Nonvul pulled away, looking down in embarrassment. “I- I’m sorry if I’m out of place. I must remember this is… well, I assume your first time with a man as well,” he said lowly, biting the inside of his lower lip.

Miraak looked up at Nonvul with a furrowed brow, feeling a mix of hurt pride and simple embarrassment. Why was this so difficult for him? It wasn’t like he was a stranger to sex- he had plenty of woman who waited on him and were more than happy to share a bed with him. But he was feeling as ridiculous and naive as he had his first time. Miraak decided to swallow down his worries, taking Nonvul’s comment as a challenge. His hand slipped down over the other man’s firm ass, sliding his fingers down until he could press his index finger against his hole. 

Nonvul tensed in surprise, not expecting Miraak to suddenly take him up on that. He leaned forward with a rather loud groan as Miraak pushed a finger in, giving their members a firm squeeze in response that made Miraak hiss. Nonvul pressed his face into Miraak’s neck this time, eyes closed as he focused on the feeling of Miraak’s finger sliding deeper within him. Miraak was hesitant, but each time Nonvul groaned against his ear a bit more of the hesitation melted away until a second finger joined the first. Nonvul bucked his hips roughly against Miraak’s, stifling another loud groan. Nonvul shifted himself closer to Miraak’s body, finally releasing their cocks so he could reach out and brace himself on the side of the pool when Miraak started to slowly thrust his fingers. Miraak listened carefully to Nonvul’s breathing, making sure that each movement was correct. 

He was too  _ slow.  _ Nonvul finally cursed, unable to be patient any longer. Miraak allowed him to pull his hand away, grunting as Nonvul reached down and grabbed his length again. Nonvul stared down at Miraak with heavy eyelids, giving Miraak’s full length a few pumps before he lined him up with his entrance. Miraak reached up and gripped Nonvul’s hips tightly, and the second he felt Nonvul’s ass give Miraak pulled sharply down. Nonvul’s eyes widened in surprise, hissing and reaching out to grab Miraak’s shoulders roughly.

“Fuck- Miraak-” Nonvul gasped, closing his eyes in pain. He hunched over as Miraak tried to set him fully in his lap, biting his lip hard enough for his sharp teeth to pierce it. “Y-you c-can’t do that. N-not like this,” Nonvul managed, feeling his insides burn. If he’d known he was going to  _ fuck  _ his mentor, he would have brought oils or  _ something.  _ He had hoped that the hot spring water and Miraak’s fingers would loosening him up a bit, but they hadn’t enough for Miraak to be so rough.

Miraak stopped, his breathing ragged as he tried not to keep moving. “Sorry,” Miraak managed to rhasp, for once feeling displeased at the sound of his lover’s discomfort. He was so used to being relentlessly rough and uncaring about his partner, but Nonvul… Nonvul wasn’t one of his harem girls. He was… different.

Miraak pulled Nonvul close, pulling back to thrust slower this time. A deep, chest-rumbling groan escaped his lips, wrapping an arm around Nonvul’s back to hold him close.

Nonvul turned to nibble on Miraak’s ear, a grin on his lips once Miraak began to ease himself more into him. There was no doubt that Miraak was on the bigger side of things Nonvul had taken, but the way he stretched him and hit against his sensitive spots made Nonvul really wish he’d brought a actual lubricant. He started to roll his own hips, helping Miraak find a pace that suited both of them. 

The water of the hot springs sloshed around them with each thrust, some of it starting to spill over the edge. Their low grunts and moans echoed off of the cliff wall, filling the small clearing with the lewd noises of their lovemaking.

Nonvul felt his cock throb, rubbing up against Miraak’s stomach with each thrust. He wasn’t going to last much longer, especially  not with how Miraak kept hitting his prostate. “Miraak…” Nonvul groaned, panting hard against Miraak’s shoulders.

Miraak closed his eyes, trying his hardest not to buck violently into Nonvul, but their position just wasn’t enough for him. Nonvul almost fell over in surprise when Miraak suddenly stood up, pulling Nonvul off of him before he moved and forced the smaller man over the edge of the hot springs. He pushed him down, pushing Nonvul’s stomach against the edge of the springs before pulling his ass back up again.

Nonvul’s face turned scarlet, adjusting himself so that Miraak could get behind him. He arched firmly back when Miraak re-entered him, pressing his fingers firmly into the stone. “Miraak…” Nonvul moaned again, feeling Miraak’s hot breath on his shoulder.

Hearing his name made Miraak smirk, pushing some of his wet hair out of his face before he took Nonvul’s hips in one hand and planted the other next to Nonvul’s head. Now the water really splashed out, sending small waves over the edge under where Nonvul lay with each thrust. The sound of splashing water was combined with the slapping of skin, and Miraak angled Nonvul until he could feel his balls slap firmly against Nonvul’s ass each time he hilted. Miraak pressed his face into Nonvul’s back, hot breath cascading down his spine as he picked up his pace. 

Nonvul brought a hand to his mouth, biting his knuckles for a moment out of habit before he remembered where they were. This wasn’t the temple - this was their own private space far from anyone else. Nonvul pulled his hand away with a rather low, earthy purr, and even the discomfort of the stone scraping against his stomach and his chest was negligible in the moment. The feeling of Miraak, the great godly priest Miraak, bending him over and taking him in secret was just too much.

Nonvul’s body trembled before he let out a sharp groan, his body tensing as he came. He struggled to reach down to pump himself, pressing his forehead roughly against the ground with sharp ‘ah’s as he rubbed himself. The sound of Nonvul’s climax and the feeling of his ass squeezing around his length made Miraak snarl, moving to bite into Nonvul’s shoulder again. Nonvul winced in pain, but he bore it as Miraak’s pace grew erratic.

Nonvul’s cock had just finished spurting by the time Miraak came as well with another rumbling groan, eyes fluttering as he gave a few more rapid thrusts before stilling inside of his lover. Nonvul exhaled slowly as Miraak hilted, feeling his cock twitch hard inside of him with each spurt of warmth.

The two fell still, breathing hard as they remained hunched over the edge of the spring in the slowly cooling water they’d splashed over. Once Miraak felt himself soften, he slid out, shakily pulling away to let Nonvul move.

Nonvul pushed himself up, his body trembling. “Gods…” he whispered, carefully trying to settle himself back into the spring so he could clean himself. Miraak did the same, looking away as he finally took a moment to examine the situation- after the fact, of course. Nonvul glanced at him, taking a deep breath. He wasn’t entirely sure what this meant either - and with Miraak, he was having a hard time reading what the other man might be thinking. Nonvul carefully slid closer to Miraak, waiting until the other priest got the guts to glance towards him. Nonvul scanned his features, a look of worry coming back to his face. “...I… I won’t tell anyone,” Nonvul whispered, looking down. “I just… I want to know if this…” He swallowed, “if this is just…”

Miraak shifted. Was this… just a fling? Something neither of them would never speak of again…? Was that what he wanted?  

No. It scared him, but no. He did not want this to end here. Miraak stiffened. He wanted Nonvul. He wanted  _ that _ . Uncertainties and paranoia clawed at his brain, but recklessly he reached out and grabbed Nonvul’s face. He pulled him in close again into a deep kiss, cutting Nonvul off before he could say anymore. 

Nonvul relaxed, sliding up to him so he could wrap his arms tightly around Miraak’s shoulders until they broke apart. The look in Nonvul’s eyes as he gazed up at Miraak made the older’s priest heart feel like it might fall out of his chest. Such joy, such softness, such reverence. Miraak slowly leaned forward, resting his forehead against Nonvul’s. A smile curled at the edge of Nonvul’s lips again, and he reached up to put one hand on Miraak’s cheek as well. “Am I dreaming?” Nonvul whispered. “I surely must be. A simple man like me could not be blessed with the affections of a god like you.”

Miraak dared to make eye contact with Nonvul, and even found the courage to hold it. Nonvul did not make him feel like he was being picked apart, like every flaw and weakness that he saw in Miraak’s eyes could be a weapon used to slay him. Miraak saw only adoration. “Then I too must be dreaming, to believe there is any man out there who would look upon me as you do.”

Nonvul caressed Miraak’s cheek, before pulling him into a tight hug. “I pray we both wake up tomorrow and find that none of this was a dream then. Even if we can only share this in secret. I know… I know Sonaak Konahrik would not approve, but…”

“He does not need to know,” Miraak replied, his arms tangling around Nonvul to hold him tight. “ _ Nobody  _ needs to know.”

Nonvul felt a slight disappointment at the idea, but he understood it, and he understood that all of this had… come on rather suddenly. The idea of Miraak showing him any true affection had been but a daydream in Nonvul’s head, a fantasy he was fully accepting of never happening. And Miraak… Miraak certainly didn’t seem to have seen his own emotions coming. Or perhaps he had simply not realized their depth.

The two lingered in each other’s grip until the warmth of the water finally got to them, and the two found a slab of rock  above to stretch out over. Their robes provided just enough comfort, and the coolness of the summer air was hardly noticeable to either atmoran.

Nonvul’s head rested on Miraak’s chest, one arm slung across as well while the two watched the auroras dance overhead. 

“...Is this why you were helping me?” Nonvul asked, shifting to glance up at Miraak.

Miraak did not shift his gaze from the stars, one arm propping his head up while the other held Nonvul close. “No,” Miraak replied, about the only response he did not have to think on. “I helped you for all the reasons I told you before. Though…” He trailed off, before grunting. “I suppose that I no longer can deny that I may have visited you to simply see you as well.”

Nonvul chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Does this mean that we will see each other more?”

Miraak hummed. “I should hope it does. At very least, it gives me an excuse to invite you to Solstheim, doesn’t it?” 

Nonvul smiled, looking back out to the stars. “Is that the only reason?” he teased.

“Of course not,” Miraak said. “But it gives me time to work out more…  _ privacy  _ for us.”

Nonvul snorted. “I see, you just wish to lay with me.”

Miraak rolled his eyes. “I can have any man or woman that I desire. That is hardly the case.”

“Am I not good enough?” Nonvul laughed.

“You are the  _ only  _ one good enough,” Miraak corrected, stretching. 

Nonvul relented on his teasing, nuzzling his face into Miraak’s chest. “It is a shame Sonaak Konahrik prohibits this. I would have prefered it if we did not have to keep it hidden.” 

Miraak exhaled slowly. There would be a stage where he assumed he’d feel the same, but for now… keeping their relationship hidden was fine. He still was uncertain about it, stumbling over it and trying to fully understand it. The less people who could try to use it to harm him, the better. “Perhaps there will be a time after Konahrik is no longer in this world,” Miraak said idly.

“Now who is the heretic talking?” Nonvul said, before yawning. 

Miraak finally shifted to look down at Nonvul. “We should return to the temple, before we fall asleep. We have been absent long enough.” He sat up, wincing at the stiffness in his muscles from laying on the stone.

Nonvul pouted, finally pulling away. “A shame. I would have enjoyed falling asleep with you here, under the stars.”

The sentiment made Miraak’s heart flutter. He didn’t look at Nonvul, but slowly he reached out and gave Nonvul’s hand a nervous squeeze. “Another time,” he said quietly, before finally standing to put his robes back on.

Nonvul watched him from the ground before doing the same. Before either donned their mask, Miraak reached over to give Nonvul one more kiss. Nonvul smiled as Miraak pulled away, pulling his mask down to cover his features. “Our secret,” he whispered.

Miraak did the same, already missing seeing that smile once it disappeared behind the cool, emotionless expression of Nonvul. “Our secret,” he whispered back, before picking up his staff and turning to head back to the temple.


	4. The Softest Snow [M]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Krosis makes a last stand for his people's survival, and reminisces about the past.
> 
> Warnings: Character Death, Violence
> 
> Dovahzul now in English in the main body with Dovahzul hover text / at the bottom

The crying of babies was quieter today. While normally Krosis would be relieved, it was a bad sign. There were fewer now, and the realization made his chest grow tighter with each passing day. They couldn’t keep this up.

Krosis trudged through the snow, staff clenched tightly in one hand and the strap of a bag in the other. Around him shuffled the remains of his loyal - men, woman, and children who had followed him in hopes of sanctuary. Somewhere.  _ Anywhere.  _ The Dragon War had taken their homes from them, and the lives of many of their family and friends. The cold, the exposure, starvation… and the hunters took many, many more in the following years.

Who was even left anymore? 

Krosis’s eyes wearily scanned their surroundings. They had managed to wander back around to familiar territory, somewhere within the Pale. Mountains stretched up on either side, which thankfully blocked the worst of the winds… for now. A thick forest of pine trees lined the northern front, but for now they avoided it. The forest was dark, dangerous, and hard to navigate. And on top of that, it was a place that Gruthrathlir couldn’t follow.

Their patron dragon darted in and out of the clouds above, his shadow often the only sign that he had yet to abandon them. Every now and then, people dared to glance up, praying to catch just a glimpse of their guardian above. If it hadn’t been for him… many weren’t sure if they would still be there.

Krosis adjusted the bag, feeling an ache in his bones. They’d been walking for weeks now, from dawn to dusk, from one point to another. They had already been chased out of their own home and had fled west in hopes of finding safety - but it hadn’t lasted long. Soon, they were being chased back east, and more and more of their numbers thinned. Each dawn brought a new death toll, and people wept as the bodies of loved ones were left in the snow, unable to be given a proper burial. It made Krosis’s heart ache. He could do nothing for his people - nothing but continuing to herd them to an unknown fate.

He hadn’t heard from any of the other priests in months. The last person he’d reached contact with was Volsung, when they’d been in her old territory - but where she was, how she was doing, and if she was still alive was beyond him. Those who remained clung to every last available threads. 

So many were gone. The temple. The dragons. His people. His friends.

Krosis let out a heavy exhale, the condensation seeping through the mouth of his mask. And still, they were hunted. Hounded. Chased. His people had gone from thousands to less than 200 - a feeble stretch of worn and tired faithful trying to walk through the knee-deep snow to the mountain pass ahead. And then what? To where? To what life? A life of hiding? A life of running? He, Krosis, a high-ranking priest of the temple, was walking beside them carrying his own bag. Years ago, when things had been okay, nobody would have believed that. Krosis may not have been as full of himself as his peers, but this… was unheard of. He had been a king. Gruthrathlir had been a god. 

And now they were vermin to be exterminated.

Things would never be the same again. The other priests… he would never see them again either. He knew for certain that most of them were dead already. Who was left? Who were the ones he’d at least heard from in the past year or so? Volsung, Rahgot, Vokun, Klo and Zaan. They were still alive, at least a year ago. 6 of them total. And at one point, there had been 25 of them.

Krosis’s face turned bitter behind his mask. Before that day. Before he  _ betrayed  _ them.

The thought still made what little bile his body could manage boil up in the back of his throat. Miraak…  _ his  _ Miraak…

No, not his Miraak. He had not been his Miraak in decades. He’d left that all behind - Or at least, he wanted to think he had. But ultimately, wasn’t this all his fault? All his cause? The rebellion? The dragon’s downfall? Miraak had sparked all of it, when he’d gone and gotten himself tangled up with the Woodland Man and sought to enslave their gods. 

What would he have thought, if he could see what he’d done?

Krosis scoffed quietly.

Nothing, no doubt. He stopped caring, as far as Krosis could tell. After all, what was the last thing he’d said to him?

 

Krosis could remember.

Two… no… maybe even three decades of being together. Of visiting in secret, of planning meetings to see one another, of dodging danger just for a moment to embrace-

And then suddenly, it began to stop. Miraak had changed. The man he knew so deeply, loved so deeply, was not the same anymore. He was paranoid, distant, detached. Faithless. Those meetings, their letters, the long nights - they slowly petered out. The letters felt empty. Embracing him felt like holding a corpse. Miraak stopped visiting him, holding himself up in Solstheim. His letters grew shorter, less interested. 

Dukaan, Ahzidal, and Zahkriisos. They were Miraak’s close companions. He remembered that, he saw that. They were the only ones he talked to now. Even at meetings, Miraak pretended like he wasn’t there. After decades of just dancing around interactions until they were in private, Miraak wouldn’t even acknowledge him - in public or in private. And Zahkriisos…

The thought always made his stomach churn. The way she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, talked to him,  _ postured  _ around him…

And did Miraak stop it? No. Never once. 

‘ _ Miraak? Do you wish to be with Zahkriisos instead? I have… seen how she acts around you. If I am no longer of interest to you, please tell me _ .’

That letter had pained him to write. Every stroke of the brush made him feel like it was being carved into his very skin.

 

_ ‘Zahkriisos? No. I am not. I do not care for her.’ _

 

That was it. He hadn’t even answered the second part of the question. He was avoiding it. There was never any answer about what was becoming of  _ them.  _ They,  _ they,  _ just stopped being a  _ thing.  _ Stopped, without any word on the matter. Not why. Not when. 

One day, something had happened. And Miraak was not Miraak anymore. 

Almost three decades had suddenly stopped meaning anything. Plans, ideas, habits, all of that meant  _ nothing  _ one day. 

Krosis had pushed it off, waiting, hoping, praying for  _ any  _ answer, any change. Of course, it never came. He just watched Miraak grow more and more distance. The letters just became shorter and more inconsistent. Empty. Hollow. Pointless. They stopped being about things that mattered, things they cared for, things about their plans. Pointless drabble. Filler just to keep the letters flowing, if only just.

No matter how many times he’d tried to write it, each time brought tears to his face. He could not stop them from warping the paper and splattering the ink. He’d rewritten it over and over again, but each time the result was the same. Why wouldn’t it be? Two and a half decades. And this was how it was going to end. 

 

‘ _ To my dearest Miraak, _

_ This is the last letter I will be sending you. I understand that, for whatever reasons, you have grown tired of me. I do not know what it is that I have done wrong, but I see you show no interest in continuing this. In us. And I cannot bear this any longer.  _

_ I wish this could have ended differently. But I wish you luck. In whatever it is you are focused on now.  _

_ Farewell, Miraak. Perhaps your future will bring you more happiness then I had. _

_ -Nonvul’ _

 

When his hawk returned, there was a scroll of paper attached. It was small, and it took Krosis all his courage to take it and unroll it. And for what?

Just a stamp. Miraak’s stamp. Nothing more. A acknowledgement that he’d received the message.

Two and a half decades. 

Krosis remembered holding the paper in his hands. He remembered how badly his hands had shaken, just looking down at the simple symbol stamped onto the page in patchy black ink.

Two and a half decades, and all Miraak had said in ending it was a single stamp. 

Krosis had thrown it into the fire. The tiny paper couldn’t even finish shriveling away to ash before Krosis broke down again. 

 

Krosis. Your name is Krosis. You are Krosis.

Nonvul was stripped away from him. Noble. Honorable.

What a sick joke. 

‘ _ We have decided, in reflection of the past few years, that it would be proper to reevaluate that in which you are named.’ _

Krosis. 

Not Nonvul.

In the ashes and wake of everything Miraak had done, it was one more insult. One more bitter, painful reminder.

Maybe before everything, others would have disagreed. But they had agreed. Oh, Krosis remembered. They had bitterly agreed. Miraak, Ahzidal, Dukaan, Zahkriisos. They had betrayed them, no matter how close. No mistakes like that would be made again. 

There would be no more friendships. No more risks.

Krosis. 

Sorrow. Unfortunate. Apologies. 

The words stuck to the back of his throat. 

He was Krosis.

  
  


Sorrow. Krosis’s tired eyes lifted from his thoughts. His people were ragged and thin. They were dying. He herded them forward to a long, slow, hopeless death. He knew that. He and Gruthrathlir had talked about it in length, as they looked down on the ever-shrinking camps of followers. There were few places to go. Many had already fled. Many had already accepted their fates. Krosis had fought to believe that there would be some hope, somewhere, for his people. Now he knew that there would be no such thing. 

And in the depths of winter, he could see the end. Each day they marched closer to it. Would it be kinder, to ask the people to lay down and accept death? Was it cruel to promise them hope of salvation and sanctuary, when he knew it did not exist any longer? 

Volsung was holding out. She had not disclosed where she and her followers had wound up, and Krosis would not ask her about it. It was too risky. If any message was intercepted, he could put Volsung and her people in danger. 

They were a vermin that needed to be exterminated. 

Miraak had started a rebellion against the dragons and their worshipers.

Miraak was going to kill him, one way or another.

 

“ _ Sonaak Krosis! _ ” 

Krosis lifted his gaze again, squinting through the snow that drifted downward. A ragged man, panting, exhausted, managed to stumble through the snow towards the dragon priest. People watched him fearfully, women pulling children closer and people exchanging soft chitter of worry.

“Yes? Is something wrong?” Krosis spoke, his voice cracking after so much silence and so little water. 

The man stopped just before Krosis, shaking badly as he panted. “They’re just behind us. They’re catching up. A-at least fifty, if not… if not more. Armed. All armed,” the man said, his voice almost sounding hysteric. 

Krosis looked back over his shoulder. Their pursuers hadn’t broken the ridge behind them yet, but he did not doubt this man’s words. He knew they were being followed. They all knew. It was just a matter of time before they caught up again. Krosis looked back to the man.

The man stared, brown eyes wide, tired, looking for an answer. Even the strongest, healthiest of them had gaunt cheeks, scabs, frostbite. Nobody here was in any condition to fight. The others who had slowed to listen looked to Krosis for some sort of miracle. 

“Gather everyone. Head for the pass as quickly as you can. Once everyone is through, you must collapse it so they will have to reroute,” Krosis ordered, his voice low. He slid his bag off his shoulder, letting it fall into the snow with a heavy, muffled thud. He held out the strap of it to the man, who stared at him with confusion. “...I will stay here. I will hold them off as long as I can. Do not wait for me. If I am to rejoin you, I will find my own way.”

The man took a step back. “Sonaak Krosis, we can’t-”

“You can, and you  _ will _ ,” Krosis ordered, urging the man to take his belongings. “Go. Hurry. You don’t have time to waste.”

Soft murmuring shifted between the few around before one by one they picked up their pace. The scout frowned, eyes full of pain before he nodded and reached out to take Krosis’s bag. “Where shall we go?” He asked quietly.

Krosis straightened himself out. “Keep heading east. Head for the pass at the north end of mountains. There… they may leave you alone then,” Krosis said softly. He knew that he could not guarantee that. He knew they wouldn’t even make it to the mouth of the White River. 

The man gave a bow, closing his eyes tightly. “Thank you. Please return to us, Sonaak Krosis,” he said, giving Krosis one more worried look before turning to gather up the others.

Krosis watched the man run through the snow, leaving him alone. People ahead started to pick up their pace, gathering together. Babies began to cry. He could hear the panic. Krosis tilted his head back as a shadow passed overhead.

Gruthrathlir slowly descended down, coming to land in the snow bank a few feet from him. His black spines bristled, looking down the valley in the direction they’d come from. “[...](x) [ _ You will not run? _ ](x) ”

Krosis followed Gruthrathlir’s gaze, seeing the very tops of banners start to speckle the horizon. Slowly, he shook his head. “ [ _ No. They will not reach the pass if I do. _ _ ” _ ](x)

The wind picked up, making snow drift sideways for a few moments. Gruthrathlir slowly lumbered over to Krosis, scales bristling. [“](x) [ _ You do this, even if you know they will die anyways? _ _ ” _ ](x)

Krosis closed his eyes. No. They would not make it. Even if they made it through the pass, they would slowly die of exposure. 

Years ago, he knew his body would have been buried in a tomb as a king, tended to for the rest of time by loyal servants. He snorted to himself. Now he would be lucky if the ravens picked at his corpse before it froze over to be lost in the snow.

“ [ _ We have to face this fate someday. I am ready. _ _ ”  _ ](x)

The dragon’s white scales rattled as he let out a low rumble. The two stood in silence, watching their pursuers slowly approach on the horizon. Krosis could seem them readying for battle, no doubt only worried because of the dragon. He was one dragon priest. Before, he was feared. But now, alone… he was pitiful.

Krosis turned to look at his patron. “ [ _ Go. They will fight you if you stay. _ ” ](x)

“ [ _ I know _ ](x) [,”](x) Gruthrathlir rumbled, his tail swaying through the snow. 

Krosis looked up to the dragon, the shouts of the soldiers ahead echoing now through the air. 

Gruthrathlir tilted his head to look down at Krosis. “ [ _ I will fight beside you until they make the pass. Then… I will bring you to them. Alive, or dead. You will not be left to fight this battle alone. _ ” ](x)

“ [ _ You don’t need to do this, my lord, _ ](x) [”](x) Krosis whispered, trying to steel himself. He tightened his fingers around his staff, trying to take a deep breath.

Gruthrathlir chuckled, frost curling from between his sharp teeth. “ [ _ No, I don’t. Yet, I am. To the end. _ ” ](x)

Krosis wanted nothing more then to reach out and brush the scales of his companion one last time, but he didn’t dare. Not before the men only a few dragon’s lengths from them. “ [ _ May your reign last forever, my lord. It was my honor to serve you, _ _ ”  _ ](x) he said softly, pulling on his magic. He pulled on the fabric of the world around him, calling forth a frost atronach from beyond to aid him. The golem-like creature rumbled, immediately aware of its targets.

Gruthrathlir spread his wings wide, preparing to take to the sky. [“](x) [ _ I will see you again, Krosis. This I know. I promise you, as my loyal, _ ](x) _ ”  _ he said, slowly taking to the sky. The snow bloomed around him in a great cloud, making it almost impossible for Krosis to see him as he soared upwards. 

Krosis exhaled slowly, casting another spell in preparation. Energy flowed through his skin, before making a dense armor of magic over his skin. Krosis’s focus returned to the armed men. Their leader stepped forward in the group, a man in heavy nordic armor. Krosis could tell he wanted to say something, something snide, but the priest didn’t give him the chance.

Krosis hurled a spear of ice out of his hand. The man jerked to the side, saved by a swipe from one of his allie’s blades. The leader gave Krosis a scowl, before commanding his men forward.

Krosis’s atronach charged forward in return, meeting the wall of men in a clash of metal and ice. Krosis took a step back, swinging his staff around. A giant fireball was let loose from the mouth at the end, exploding on the other side of the front line.

Men shrieked between his attack and the atronach’s assault, but more men pressed forward. A arrow shot forward from the crowd, missing Krosis narrowly. 

He couldn’t let them get closer. He took another step back, unleashing a ice storm to try to slow the men down so he could back up a bit more. Another arrow shot through the ice, making contact with his shoulder. It bounced off his ebonyflesh, but the impact still made Krosis wince under his armor.

“Give up, dragon worshipper! You aren’t going to win!” Their leader snarled, using his shield to push through the ice storm.

Krosis narrowed his eyes, but made no response. No, he was not going to win. But he had to buy time. He resisted the urge to look back and check at how far his people had gotten. He summoned up more of his magicka, releasing another ice storm. He just needed to bide them time.

Gruthrathlir suddenly descended from the clouds with a roar, sending some of the less seasoned men scattering in a scream of terror. A stream of ice and a downburst of frigid wind followed him, pelting the men below. The arrows, to Krosis’s relief, turned to try to take down the dragon instead. Most bounced harmlessly off of the dragon’s white scales, but a few found the soft skin between plating.

Krosis grimaced, but he could not help his patron. If Gruthrathlir needed, he could just leave. He owned Krosis nothing. 

But Gruthrathlir didn’t. The battle would not last long enough anyways, but it would last as long as Krosis needed it to. 

The hunter’s numbers had thinned - much more than they’d anticipated. Krosis assumed that he and Gruthrathlir had at least halved how many their were, but too many still remained. Krosis could feel himself pulling at the bottom of his magicka. He didn’t have enough to summon a third atronach, or cast more ebonyflesh. His last atronach had crumbled, and he had a sinking feeling his ebonyflesh wasn’t going to be too far behind.

Gruthrathlir’s strafes had slowed down, and the last time Krosis had seen the dragon the rivers of blood were apparent on his pale scales. A few times he’d been forced to land, and Krosis feared the dragon himself wouldn’t last much longer. And yet, he fought on too.

Krosis looked back over his shoulder. The last of his people were heading up the pass, soon to make it through the break in the rocks where Krosis prayed they could seal it.

His breath hitched. Pain streaked out through his side, digging deep into his gut. His head snapped forward again, eyes wide as his hand instinctively came down to his side. His fingers brushed against the cold shaft of an arrow, and came back with warm, red blood. He looked at his wound, his hand, before looking back to the people before him.

The next arrow hit his pauldron, bouncing off, but it came with enough force to make his shoulder jerk backwards. Krosis hissed in pain, raising his staff weakly to fire another fireball. Nothing. Even his staff was out of juice.

A weak  groan of pain was wrought from his lips at the next arrow, feeling it land in his shoulder. The end of the line was finally here. He pulled on the very last strands of his magicka, using everything he had to cast one more ice storm. Just a bit longer…

Krosis looked back over his shoulder. Only a few lingered, paused as he could only assume they looked down at him. They made it. But for what? To die on the other side…?

What difference did it make? Maybe they would make it anyways. 

Another arrow dug into his ribcage, making him stagger back. He tried to take a deep breath, but all he got was pain. He coughed, legs shaking before he turned to face the remaining soldiers. Blood rushed in his ears, and the sound of his own breathing in his mask sounded suddenly so much louder. His mouth tasted like iron, and when he coughed he could feel warm liquid spray from his lips and out of the slit of his mask. 

Were they saying something? He could see the leader’s mouth moving, but it all sounded muffled.

Krosis tried to keep his staff pointed at them, exhausted. He had to keep going. Keep them back. Keep his people safe. He was a dragon priest. He would lead them to safety, like he always did, like he promised he would. His vision tunneled and blurred a bit as he struggled to stay standing, not moving back even as his enemies grew closer. 

So damn tired. So much walking. So much wandering for nothing.

 

“Do you think they would allow me to move?”

Miraak glanced over at him, brow arched. “Hm?”

Krosis shrugged, looking back out at the ocean. He leaned forward on the balcony. “Our temples are… so far apart. It is such a great distance to travel to see you. I thought, perhaps, that I might be allowed to relocate.”

Miraak chuckled. “To where?”

Krosis shrugged again. “Somewhere closer.”

Miraak hummed, stroking his beard in thought, though Krosis could tell it was more mocking than serious. “You would have to change spots with Nahkriin, or Haldriin. I must assume that Nahkriin would be… less than interested.”

Krosis snorted. “There are mountains in my territory.”

“Yes, but not  _ nearly  _ as many,” Miraak leaned forward as well, watching a gull drift in the breeze. “What about Gruthrathlir?”

Krosis blinked, before looking out at the ocean as well. “...You mean more to me, Miraak.” Krosis slid his hand across the stone, finding Miraak’s. He tangled his fingers slowly with his lover’s, holding his hand tightly. 

Miraak looked down, before moving to place a gentle kiss on Krosis’s temple. 

“Do you think there will be a day when we can ever be a  _ family _ , Miraak?” Krosis asked quietly, leaning into Miraak’s shoulder.

Miraak exhaled slowly, leaning back before resting his cheek on Krosis’s head. “I… I will ensure there will be,” Miraak mumbled, his gaze soft.

 

For nothing. 

Krosis spat up another mouthful of blood, crimson dripping out of the mask’s mouth before slowly dripping down into the white snow below. Splatters of blood already left a trail from where he’d been standing to where he’d ended, his legs just holding.

For nothing. Everything. The mask. His loyalty. His love. His life.

Krosis.

It had been for nothing.

The last arrow embedded itself in his chest, to the left of his armor. His legs finally gave out, and he fell backwards into the snow. Powder drifted up around him as he sunk into the snow, seeing some of it creep up in the blurry edges of his vision. His staff remained in a deathly tight grip, refusing to let it go. His other blood-stained hand lay stretched out to his side. 

Gruthrathlir’s shadow circled overhead.

 

His skin was so warm. Soft. Tangled together in the dim candle light.

Krosis’s eyes grew heavy.

 

Volsung shook her head, turning away as he pulled his mask back down quickly, cheeks scalding red. 

“I saw nothing,” she said flatly, though they both heard the teasing tinge to it.

He’d given Krosis’s side a almost playful squeeze in return. 

 

Why?

 

The necklace felt heavy around his neck, but warm. He’d been keeping it hidden around his own neck until they were alone. How happy he’d felt.

 

Suffocating. A weak choke, more iron. Pain, cold, numbing. Dark shadows of people looking down at him.

 

It had felt heavier when he’d hurled it into the ocean. Watching the splash of the waves. The quiet presence of Vokun at his side.

 

The people backed away quickly as dark blotches speckled his vision. 

 

Quiet. Peaceful.

 

Gruthrathlir’s shadow grew closer.

 

Would he be there?

 

Closer. Darker.

 

Did it matter?

 

Darker.

 

Nothing.

 

Black.

 

There was nothing.

  
_Krosis._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...You will not run? - Hi fen ni ru?
> 
> No. They will not reach the pass if I do. - Nid. Nust fen ni qiinaan ahraansegol fod zu’u dreh.
> 
> You do this, even if you know they will die anyways? - Hi dreh daar, orin fod hi mindok nust fen dir naakal?
> 
> We have to face this fate someday. I am ready. - Mu fen grind daar dez osos sul. Zu’u los faada.
> 
> Go. They will fight you if you stay. - Bo. Nust fen krif hi fod hi rokaun.
> 
> I know - Zu’u mindok.
> 
> I will fight beside you until they make the pass. Then… I will bring you to them. Alive, or dead. You will not be left to fight this battle alone. - Zu’u fen krif grah-zeymahzin erei nust qiinaan ahraansegol. Ruz… Zu’u fen drun hi wah niin. Nahl, uv dilon. Hi fen ni kos lonahl krif daar grah gein.
> 
>  
> 
> You don’t need to do this, my lord - Hi dreh ni fen dreh daar, drogi.
> 
> No, I don’t. Yet, I am. To the end. - Nid, zu’u dreh ni. Nu, zu’u los. Wah fin oblaan.
> 
> May your reign last forever, my lord. It was my honor to serve you - Aal reliil laat mahfaeraak. Nii lost zini wah aam him.
> 
> I will see you again, Krosis. This I know. I promise you, as my loyal - Zu’u fen koraav hi yod, Krosis. Daar zu’u mindok. Zu’u vaat hi daar, ol middovahi.


	5. Spared the Pyre [G]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 5506
> 
> Despite his crimes, Vyr is taken in by a dragon priest to serve as a future apprentice. Takes place directly after Devourer of Souls, with some changes to the priest cast.
> 
> Characters: Vyr [Miraak], Ahzidal
> 
> Warnings: None

Vyr’s legs could hardly support him. Between his hunger, his general malnutrition, his exhaustion, the drain of adrenaline and the fear of the people before him, they felt like gelatin. 

The young boy’s gaze was cast at the ground, shaking as the men and woman that lined either side of the stone table before him barked back and forth in dovahzul at each other. He didn’t dare look up to see what they were doing, focusing instead on his dirty feet.

He should have been dead. He had  _ almost  _ been dead. He’d looked death in the eye, tied to that post before a crowd of angry dragons and each of the priests, and yet…

A shiver ran down his back. He had been spared. He had been spared by  _ him.  _ Vyr had no doubt about it. That black dragon -  that was  _ Alduin.  _ That was the greatest of the dragons, the king of kings, the god of gods.  _ Cultivated.  _ That was the only word Alduin had spoken that Vyr understood. Cultivated. Something about plants, his mind shakily recalled. A word used to talk about growing and plants. What that had to do with him, or what that meant… he didn’t know. But the second the great dragon had taken off again, Vyr had been let down from the pole and dragged inside by the masked priests.

And here he was. Standing in a room with just them. No other servants. Vyr knew that meant that the matters at hand were of the utmost importance - and they involved  _ him.  _ His battered fingers curled into the edge of his ragged tunic, broken nails digging into the rough, grimy fabric. He was too tired to be as terrified as he knew he should be. The whole day already had been one step of fear above the other, and he’d burned out every last drop of energy and emotion his tiny body could manage at what he was absolutely  _ certain  _ was going to be his funeral pyre.

But here he was. And there the priests were, no doubt arguing over his fate - whatever that was to be.

“ [ _ He  _ slayed  _ a dragon! _ ](x) ” One of them barked, hunching over the table. A man with a greenish mask, Vyr vaguely identified. He did not know which priest was which - he had only heard their names in passing in his home village, but who was who evaded him. In this case, he wasn’t sure if it would matter.

One of the two at the head of the table, both clad in gold masks, looked over to their subordinate. “ [ _ The boy did not slay a dragon, and though his actions are heretical… if it is Lord Alduin’s will that he is spared, then we have no choice but to listen to him, _ ](x) [”](x) he said, his beautiful tusked gold mask lifting slightly as he spoke.

“ _ T[he other dragons are not pleased. Do you really think any of them will want this… thing alive?”](x) _ Another spoke, turning his pale mask towards Vyr.

Vyr tried to stay steady, but he couldn’t help but flinch back. Even if the man’s words meant nothing to him, he could hear the acid in the priest’s voice.

A smaller priest at the table shifted, their mother-of-pearl mask glinting in the light of a great bonfire that burned at the center of the table. “ _ I[t is not our place to question what Lord Alduin wishes, and the other dragons no doubt will listen too.](x) _ ”

“ _[Well, i’m not taking him in. I’m not going to draw the wrath of those in my territory](x)_ ,” the green masked man spoke, folding his arms sharply across his chest as he leaned back from the table.

_ “[Nobody was asking you to, Rahgot](x) _ [,”](x) a man in a metallic grey mask said in mild irritation.

Rahgot, Vyr now knew, stiffened, but finally fell quiet.

The smaller of the two with the unusual gold masks turned to look at the other, before returning their gaze to the sixteen priests present. “ _ Y[es, while we are not choosing who takes him, one of you must. If Alduin wishes to see him trained, then he will be trained. That much is not our decision. Who trains him, however, is](x), _ ” she said, her voice old but far less spiteful than most had been.

There was a moment of pause over the table. “ _[This boy is a orphan from some miserable village in Ahraan’s territory, is he not? Let Ahraan take him](x)_ ,” a man in a black mask offered, waving a hand nonchalantly at the one with the bone white mask.

Ahraan whipped his head towards the black mask in irritation. “ _ A[bsolutely not. It’s out of the question. This thing has caused enough trouble in my territory - and I have little doubt the dragons he hasn’t consumed won’t appreciate his return with some sort of](x), _ ” he waved his arm angrily at Vyr, “ [ _ special treatment, or whatever you want to call this _ ](x) [.](x)”

“ _[Think of it as a opportunity to prove yourself to Lord Alduin](x)_ ,” the old woman said, tucking her hands under her chin as she idly watched the others bicker.

“ [ _ Lord Alduin may be our overlord, but I am unsure of how many of us wish to deal with the wrath of every other dragon whom our priests serve _ ](x) [,](x)” another man spoke, his green marble mask, surveying the others to see if anyone disagreed with him. 

Silence fell upon the table again, and Vyr didn’t have to look up to feel like they were all staring each other down, or waiting for someone else to speak. His fingers dug deeper into his shirt, a few tears rolling down his cheeks as fear and anxiety overtook him again.

Finally, another man shifted, before standing. The rest of the priest turned to look at him as he calmly paced over, hip-length black hair drifting behind him before he came to stand before Vyr.

Vyr swallowed hard, shaking intensifying as the copper masked man’s shadow cast over him. He was…  _ gargantuan.  _ Vyr had gotten a glimpse of him before, and only the marble masked man was taller - he hardly came up to the man’s ribs. He felt thin fingers curl around his face, gripping his chin before forcing Vyr’s head up. For a brief moment, Vyr dared to steal a look at the priest before him. His mask was a tarnished copper, held in place by a gold circlet. Unlike many of the other priests, he wore no hood, and instead his face was framed by a curtain of black and grey hair adorned by hundreds of gold beads. His outfit was unusual and didn’t look like any Vyr had seen before; while it had aspects of the priest’s uniforms that he was familiar with, it was clear this man hailed from somewhere far away - at least Vyr assumed so. Gold rings bit into Vyr’s cheek as his eyes quickly darted to the side, trying to avoid eye contact with the empty, judgmental stare of the mask. 

The man turned Vyr’s face from side to side, making Vyr’s breathing visibly pick up. A few more tears trickled down his cheeks, unable to hold them back.

Somebody, Vyr didn’t know who, let out a snort. “ [ _ Look at it. It’s pathetic. I don’t know why Alduin wishes to keep something so awful alive _ ](x) [,”](x) they hissed. “ _[It’d be kinder to let it die.](x)_ _ ” _

The priest holding Vyr didn’t react to their cohort’s words. He turned Vyr’s face back the other direction again, before letting go. Before Vyr had a chance to react, the priest reached down and gripped the hem of Vyr’s shirt, pulling it roughly off of him in a single motion that almost made the boy fall over. Vyr’s eyes snapped closed, on the verge of breaking down. His wrist was grabbed, turned back and forth a few times. Even with his eyes closed and the priest’s mask, he could feel the priest’s scalding perusing. 

“ _[Lash marks? So he’s a troublemaker even for humans. I absolutely will not allow such a vermin in my temples](x)_ ,” a woman spoke, almost spitting her words.

“ _[He hardly looks like he’ll survive another day as it is](x)_ _ , _ ” someone said, clicking their tongue against the back of their teeth. “ _[He’s a city rat, and a heretic at that.](x)_ ”

“ _[What do we know of him?](x)_ ” the priest holding Vyr’s wrist said suddenly, not releasing his grip. He kept Vyr with his back turned to the priest, and Vyr felt internally thankful so he could cry and keep his eyes closed without them seeing.

“ [ _ He’s a street orphan. My understanding is that he was found in a ruined village, and was taken in by a pair of low priests of the neighboring village’s temple. Passed between a few families, I believe, before they threw him out. I was not informed why. Few seem to have kept much attention on him _ ](x) [,](x)” the man in the gold mask spoke, his voice calm.

“ _[Garbage, then](x)_ ,” someone else said. “ _[I doubt a thing like that would be-](x)_ ”

“ _[I will take him](x)_ _ , _ ” the priest holding Vyr spoke, spinning Vyr back around to face the crowd.

Vyr forced his eyes open, trying to bite back more tears as he immediately dropped his gaze to the ground with his head hung.

There was audible surprise from the priests.

“ _[Master Ahzidal, forgive me for my words, but I do not believe that he is worth your time-](x)_ ” a man in a moonstone mask began.

Ahzidal…? Vyr’s eyes widened a bit. That name… he had heard of that name before. They said that he had helped the great Five Hundred Companions take back Saarthal and clear the land of the dreaded Snow Elves. A magic user so powerful, that even without the dragon’s secrets he had simply ceased to age. If this was that same man… but no, surely, it couldn’t be?

“ _[I will make that choice, Morokei, and not you](x)_ ,” the copper priest spoke, before he crouched down in front of Vyr, almost evening their height. Once more his thin fingers found themselves around Vyr’s chin, jerking his face in the priest’s direction. “Look at me, boy,” he spoke, his voice thickly accented.

Vyr finally dared to make eye contact with the empty slits of the mask at face level with him. With the fire behind the man, it was impossible to make out the eyes behind that mask, and Vyr was fine with that. 

“Do you understand why you stand here?” he asked simply, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder.

Vyr shook his head as much as the priest would allow him, making a few more tears shake loose from his eyes.

“Lord Alduin has chosen for you to become a priest instead of condemning you to death. As such, you will be returning with me to Winterhold. One of my temples will begin training you immediately. Do you understand?” he asked, his voice surprisingly quiet.

Vyr blinked in surprise and confusion. He… they were going to train him as a priest? This man was going to take him somewhere for that…? Slowly, Vyr nodded.

The priest nodded with a metallic clatter of beads on armor, before he straightened himself out and released Vyr’s face. He shifted, but a comment from Rahgot caught his ear.

“[Of course you’ll take him in. It’s always the orphans. After what, two hundred years?](x) _ ”  _ Rahgot muttered, resting his fist on his mask as he leaned on it.

A few other priests shifted uncomfortably as the man in front of Vyr stiffened.  _ “[What was that, Rahgot?](x) _ [”](x) he asked, a sharp edge to his bass voice.

Rahgot sat forward.  _ “[This little shit isn’t going to replace them, Ahzidal. You-](x) _ ” he began.

Before he could finish his sentence, Ahzidal had turned, his hair fanning out behind him. Rahgot was shoved back with enough force that it caused the rather heavy chair to topple over, almost hitting the priest next to him before Rahgot was forced up against the nearest wall by some invisible power. Ahzidal stroad towards him in great strides, fury radiating off of him. No priest dare stopped him, and to Vyr’s surprise even the two head priests said nothing.

Rahgot hissed as Ahzidal gripped his neck, the larger man towering over him dangerously. “ _[Watch your tongue, Rahgot, least I cut it from your worthless mouth. Speak about them again and I’ll ensure your seat is empty before the next meeting](x)_ ,” Ahzidal hissed, before letting Rahgot go. Rahgot hit the ground with a grunt, reaching up to rub his neck as Ahzidal turned and walked back towards Vyr. Ahzidal did not acknowledge the boy as he passed by, walking to the door before opening it and allowing a few servants to enter. “Take the boy and see to it that he is scrubbed clean. I wish to see him in my chambers by sunfall with my meal,” he Ahzidal said sternly, before stepping away to return to his place at the table.

Vyr looked around in mild confusion as the servants came to usher him out of the room. Vyr took a few stumbling steps forward with them, before turning around suddenly. He tried to hurry back for his shirt, but another wall of invisible energy halted his movements. 

“You will not need that. You will be given better things. Leave it,” Ahzidal said simply, lowering his hand once Vyr had caught his balance again. 

Vyr dared to look up at the man again, lips pursed fearfully before he nodded his head. He turned back towards the servants, not wasting the opportunity to walk out on his own free will without being grabbed or shackled. The servants stayed uncomfortably close on either side of him, clearly ready to stop him if he bolted, but Vyr didn’t dare. He stole one last look back at the door that lead to the priest’s meeting chamber as they walked away from it, before turning his attention ahead of him.

He was alive. He was spared. Despite his digression, his blasphemy, he was spared.

It was too much for him to believe.

  
  


Vyr felt like every inch of skin was going to spew blood if he was scrubbed any longer. The servants had scoured his body until it was red and raw, removing every fleck of dirt from his being. Matted hair was cut and trimmed, nails cleaned, scabs treated, and every inch of his body uncomfortably checked for any other ailments or disease. At first, he’d reisted, unused to being so roughly handled by so many people like that, but eventually he conceded to just letting them dunk him under the water and yank his limbs around like a rag doll. 

He was  _ exhausted,  _ physically and emotionally. Just that morning, he’d been cramped in a cage, then he’d been taken to be  _ sacrificed,  _ and instead of being burned at the stake in front of hundreds of people and dozens of dragons, he ended up being… spared…? 

By Alduin.

Vyr made a slight face as a servant made a few more sips to his hair, making sure it was evened out. His shoulder-length locks had been cut to only a inch or so from his skull, but it was now clean and free of lice, matting and dirt. They had given him a change of clothing, which Vyr had almost been afraid to put on. They weren’t even just servant’s clothing.

Vyr’s fingers carefully fumbled with the edge of his new tunic. It was soft, and he could tell even in his limited experience that it was  _ nice,  _ nicer then even most of the people tending to him wore. The clean, well-woven fabric felt like heaven against his raw skin, but he was terrified now of doing anything that might damage it. He patiently waited for the servants to be done with him, wanting nothing more than to curl up and sleep forever now. He still wasn’t sure what to make of his predicament, and he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. It had to, somewhere. There was no way he could just get off the hook for eating not one, but  _ two  _ dragon souls now.

Vyr grimaced tiredly, trying not to remember the sensation that had assaulted him when he’d done so. Like a new rush of life and power, a understanding, a-

Vyr closed his eyes tightly for a moment. He didn’t want to think about it. He was supposed to have died for it. He should have been dead. But, instead, he was sitting in soft clothing before a group of servants who’d scrubbed him clean, fixed his hair and nails, made him smell like some sort of fancy plant, and now were leading him down the hall to the priest that was taking him in.

Ahzidal. Vyr swallowed hard, his eyes still not raising unless he had to. He wasn’t prepared to face the man again, and he wasn’t sure what to expect. The tone of the priests in the room had not sounded… good. And Ahzidal had proven that he was inexplicably powerful - just as Vyr would have expected. What could a man like that want with him, especially after everything he’d done? If taking him was the reason the priests had been fighting, he couldn’t blame them. He wouldn’t have wanted him either. He was a heretic. He was a urchin. He was  _ nothing. _

The door to the priest’s room opened, filling the hallway with warm light and the smell of fresh meat and bread. Vyr tensed, feeling his mouth water immediately. He’d been given just enough to remain alive over the past few days, and nothing more - which, in all fairness, wasn’t much more than what he had gotten before anyways. He refused to show interest though, knowing that to do so was likely a mistake.

Ahzidal stood in the doorway, taking a single step to the side to allow just enough room for Vyr to pass. “Come. The rest of you may go,” Ahzidal said simply, extending a arm to welcome Vyr inside of his room.

Vyr grabbed the hem of his tunic as subtly as he could, keeping his head down as he nodded and stepped past the priest. The servants behind him bowed and stepped away as Ahzidal closed the door behind him. Vyr paused a few feet in, trying to scan the room the best he could without looking up. Not having his long hair made it a lot harder to conceal, he realized.

Though the room was obviously made for temporary residence, it was far nicer than any room Vyr had ever seen. The stone floor was covered in luxurious rugs, and beautiful, well-crafted furniture dotted the small room. A stone fireplace was set in one wall, a hearty fire burning inside of it. A sort of basket of a bed lay in one corner, filled to the brim with the nicest pelts, cushions and blankets, and to the side of it was a desk stacked high with paper and books. Another table lay on the closer side of the room, and Vyr could see the highest quality cutlery piled high with fresh food fit for a king. 

Which was what Ahzidal  _ was _ . Ahzidal paced past him, his black and gold robes flowing behind him before he moved and sat down on the far side of the table. The copper mask stared at him expressionlessly as the mage motioned for Vyr to take a seat across from him.

Biting his lower lip nervously, Vyr paced over and sat down, fighting to ignore the heap of food in front of him. A elk haunch, glistening and still steaming, at least four types of cheeses, a slab of mammoth thick with fat, several bowls of fruits and berries - some of which Vyr had never even  _ seen  _ before - three loaves of bread, spreads and dips of all types and colors,  _ sweet rolls… _

Vyr flinched slightly when his stomach growled. He eyes screwed shut in embarrassment, digging his fingers into his pant legs as he tried to just remain quiet, small, obedient. 

Ahzidal laced his fingers together, his rings glistening in the firelight. The copper mask’s black gaze burrowed into Vyr’s anxious head, making the boy fidget slightly as Ahzidal looked him over.

Patient. Afraid. A starving, kicked puppy still waiting for an order from its master. 

Ahzidal finally swept a hand forward, motioning to the food. “Eat. You must be starving.”

Vyr glanced up, not lifting his head. Was this a test? His fingers dug into his legs more, feeling his short nails press into his skin through the fabric. He’d anticipated as much. He looked to the food, but didn’t budge. 

Ahzidal did not move, hands laced together again with his elbows on the table. Silence fell between the two of them once more, and the priest could see how much all of this was tearing the poor, exhausted boy apart. He’d gone through much already today with no respite. 

Finally, Ahzidal leaned back. Vyr’s eyes widened as he reached up to remove the circlet, catching the mask in his other hand as it came loose before pulling it away. Vyr bowed his head quickly, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t see the man’s face.

Ahzidal chuckled, the tone much more myrthful then Vyr would have expected. He could hear Ahzidal set the two artifacts down on the wooden table, and then the sound of the priest running a hand through his hair to fix it. “You may look. I care little of who sees my face, especially when I have invited them to the privacy of my chambers. Besides,” Ahzidal shifted, leaning against the table again, “you are to serve in my territory. I have no doubt that you and I will become well acquainted.” 

Vyr furrowed his brow, hesitating before finally looking up.

Ahzidal was older - not quite grandfatherly, he would say, but if Vyr would have to guess he’d put the man somewhere in his 50’s or 60’s. Long black and grey hair framed his face, some of it braided with gold beads while other hung straight and loose. A long beard hung down from his chin, braided at the end with gold beads as well. Only a fear scars crossed his weathered face, but every angle of it was sharp and accented with age. His hazel eyes were much kinder than Vyr had been expecting, and he looked upon Miraak with a level of gentle calmness Vyr had doubted of priests like him - let alone of the legendary mage. Ahzidal tilted his head, watching Vyr carefully. After a moment, he chuckled again, a smile making the corners of his eyes crinkle before he leaned back. “Truly, eat. This food is not here for me - I had it all brought with you in mind.”

Vyr tensed, before his eyes dropped to the food again. The corner of his mouth twitched, looking over all of his options. He couldn’t help it. His hand darted out and grabbed a sweet roll first, immediately digging into it.

Ahzidal had to bring a hand up to stifle his laughter, and though it made Vyr pause he could hear the genuineness of it. To Vyr’s relief though, the man did not stop him, so Vyr didn’t. He demolished through the roll like it was his last meal - which, given the situation, he would not have been surprised if it was - before licking his fingers and moving to grab an apple. 

Ahzidal simply watched as Vyr shoved as much food as he could into his face with renewed vigor, trying out a bit of everything if he could. Ahzidal couldn’t blame him.

The boy was starving. When Ahzidal had pulled his shirt off, he was greeted with the sight of a walking corpse. Most of the young boy’s bones were visible. His skin looked like it’d been shrink-wrapped over his frame, and Ahzidal had been able to make out every rib and vertebrae. His skin was pale and discolored, covered in scabs, scars and dirt. The boy’s eyes were sunken, his cheeks were gaunt, and his mistreatment was glaringly obvious. 

This boy had seen a tough life, and it was a miracle he was still alive - the events of that day aside.

Vyr took a bite out of a unusual purple fruit, before making a face and setting it down to replace it with more familiar berries. This boy was… strange. Ahzidal slowly turned a ring on his finger with his thumb, letting the boy eat his fill before he spoke. While many of the other priests had been in an uproar over the crimes Vyr had committed, Ahzidal was…  _ fascinated.  _ He could see why Alduin would want him alive - Vyr was an abnormality. He was  _ unique _ as far as Ahzidal knew. Never before in his travels or studies had he heard of someone like him, and Ahzidal was far less offended by what he’d done than the others. That was fine. It meant that he had a chance to observe him himself. And, perhaps, if he showed the capacity, mentor him as well. 

Rahgot’s words drifted into the back of Ahzidal’s mind. 

That bastard.

Vyr felt sick, but he ate until he knew another bite would make him puke. He couldn’t help it - it was all so good, and he didn’t know when his next meal would be. Everything today had contradicted itself to the point where Vyr wasn’t going to trust things until it happened. Anything could change at a moment’s notice.

Once Vyr finally seemed to stop, Ahzidal spoke again.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked simply.

Vyr finally looked up at him again, green eyes full of anxiety. Slowly, Vyr nodded his head. “You’re Sonaak Ahzidal,” Vyr whispered, voice hardly audible. He hesitated for a moment. “...Are you really the one who helped Ysgramor in the stories?”

Another smile flashed onto the older man’s features, amused. “You’re a bright boy. I am,” he said, picking a grape out of a bowl before popping it into his mouth. “What is your name?”

Vyr blinked. Did… he really not know it? Surely, someone must have told him. He found it hard to believe that his name hadn’t come up  _ somewhere  _ in the conversation between priests, but at the same time… he also wouldn't have been surprised to know that he hadn’t been  _ given  _ one. Why would anyone name a monster like him? Genuineness or not, a masked priest was asking him. “My name is Vyr,” he said, not raising his pitch. If anything, knowing that this truly  _ was  _ the Ahzidal of legend just made him grow quieter. How small he felt in front of someone so powerful.

“Vyr,” Ahzidal repeated, and hearing his name in the mouth of such a powerful wizard made Vyr feel certain he would be struck down. But instead, Ahzidal’s smile only widened a bit further. He shifted, leaning back in his chair. “I understand that your day has been… eventful, to say the least. But I assure you, you are safe now.”

Vyr pursed his lips. Ahzidal could see that the young man didn’t believe him - why should he?

The wizard rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, folding them in front of his chest in a leisurely posture. “Lord Alduin has seen something in you that he wishes to spare. And though the other dragons and the other priests may fear it, I do not believe you should see it as a curse - and clearly, neither does our esteemed lord.”

The words caught Vyr off guard. He lifted his head a bit for the first time since he’d entered the room, and Ahzidal could see a bit of life return to his eyes. He needed reassurance. 

Ahzidal motioned to his desk, where books and scrolls overflowed from the cramped surface. “For the past century and a half, I have thoroughly studied the magic of men and mer - and I know that you are likely aware of what I have done in the past,” Ahzidal said. Vyr nodded, his gaze darting to the books for only a moment. “Your power is unlike that of anything i’ve ever encountered, so I wish for you to understand that when I take you to Winterhold to be trained, I do so with a genuine interest to see you grow. The priest who brought you here informed me that you have quite a budding talent in magic, and that the head priest of your temple had been very interested in seeing you become a priest and honing your talents. Is that correct?”

Vyr stiffened a bit, but slowly he nodded. 

Ahzidal nodded simply, before leaning forward. “As of present, I am unsure of which temple you will begin at. The temple in which I reside over does not have space for a fledgling priest, and given the… suddenness of this, I have yet to find a temple in my territory that does. But,” Ahzidal gave Vyr a very serious look, “when you have progressed and learned, I have no doubt that you will find your way into mine, and perhaps then I will have a chance to teach you myself.”

Vyr was, rather visibly, stricken by this. The boy stared at Ahzidal with wide eyes, a bit dumbfounded. Him? Did this man really think he had that kind of potential? That seemed impossible, especially given what he’d come from.

“I will come and assess your progression personally from time to time,” Ahzidal continued, “ and if and when the time comes, I will see that you move to where your talents may best fledge. You will no longer be sleeping on the streets, no will you be kept in a cage and left to starve. Your fellow priests may fear you, Vyr, but know that they could never harm you. Lord Alduin himself has chosen you,  _ you _ , to become a priest, young Vyr, in the face of everyone’s spite and fear. No man, nor  _ dov,  _ may harm you. Those who will be your peers will know that they will never be looked upon as our esteemed lord has looked upon you.” 

Ahzidal’s words shook Vyr to his core. Vyr watched as Ahzidal stood up. The priest walked over to his desk, picking up something off of it, before returning back. Vyr felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

A dragon’s fang hung off of the end, wrapped in gold at one end so it could be hung on a cord. Vyr didn’t even have to touch it to feel the magic in it, and he could see the intricate carvings around part of it of some sort of enchantment. 

Ahzidal set the necklace around Vyr’s neck, letting the tooth fall to his chest. Vyr shakily reached down to pick it up, careful not to cut himself on the sharpest edge as he brought it up to his face.

“Let Nilnolkrief’s death be a reminder of what you stand to gain,” Ahzidal said simply. 

Vyr’s hand shook. This… this was a fang of the dragon who would have killed him. He swallowed hard, feeling dizzy and even more nauseous than before. He forced himself to nod though, inhaling before looking back up to Ahzidal.

“We will leave at dawn the day after tomorrow. Until then,” he extended a arm to his bed, “rest. You have had a long day. My servants will get you your own bed tomorrow, and for the time being you will house with me. Rest easy - I will ensure that you will not be bothered tomorrow,” Ahzidal said softly.

Vyr tightened his grip around the tooth, feeling a flood of emotions hit him. He tried to swallow them back. “Will I take your space?” Vyr managed, worried.

Ahzidal chuckled, reaching out to ruffle Vyr’s short hair before moving to sit in a chair by the fire. “I will manage. I do not always need rest as much as others might. Gods know you need it more than I anyways,” he said. 

Vyr bit his lower lip, before sliding out of his chair. He shuffled across the floor, savoring the feeling of carpet under his feet, before slowly crawling into the basket-like structure. It was… not what Vyr had ever seen before, but immediately he fell into a comfortable nest of soft cushions and covers. It felt like  _ heaven.  _ Vyr buried himself into it, bundling himself up in layer after layer of warm blankets and fur. Oh, it felt better then anything he’d ever slept in before. Vyr smashed his face into one of the soft pillows, taking a deep breath before closing his eyes. It felt strange to be in the bed of a masked priest, or to be in their room, or  _ any  _ of this, but…

Vyr couldn't ponder on it more. The exhausted boy quickly passed out in the warm, comforting heap of real blankets, carried into a deep sleep by the gentle crackle of the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He slayed a dragon! - Rok kriin dovah!
> 
> The boy did not slay a dragon, and though his actions are heretical… if it is Lord Alduin’s will that he is spared, then we have no choice but to listen to him. - Kiir drey ni kriin dovah, kaadon ok dreh sleveh… fod nii Thur Alduin’s fen daar rok los aaz, ruz mu nid miiraad nunon hon rok.
> 
> The other dragons are not pleased. Do you really think any of them will want this… thing alive? - Dov ni gei. Dreh hi vahzah mindol naan niin fen laan daar… sunvaar nahlaas?
> 
> It is not our place to question what Lord Alduin wishes, and the other dragons no doubt will listen too. - Nii ni un golt laan Thur Alduin hind, dov nid doz fen hon. 
> 
> Kredah, zu’u fen ni frah rok ko. Zu’u ni bo grilok bah daar ko romaaki. - Well, i’m not taking him in. I’m not going to draw the wrath of those in my territory.
> 
> Nobody was asking you to, Rahgot - Nid lost laan hi wah, Rahgot.
> 
> Yes, while we are not choosing who takes him, one of you must. If Alduin wishes to see him trained, then he will be trained. That much is not our decision. Who trains him, however, is. - Geh, ol mu ni aurah wo frah rok, gein hi fen. Rul Thur Alduin hind koraav rok maia, ruz rok fen kos maia. Daar pogaas los ni un miiraad. Wo mai rok, kaadon, los.
> 
> This boy is a orphan from some miserable village in Ahraan’s territory, is he not? Let Ahraan take him. - Daar kiir oth nol osos tiivah sahsun ahst Ahraan romaakro, rok ni? Dumaavu Ahraan frah rok.
> 
> Absolutely not. It’s out of the question. This thing has caused enough trouble in my territory - and I have little doubt the dragons he hasn’t consumed won’t appreciate his return with some sort of special treatment, or whatever you want to call this. - Thelaan ni. Nii los zeim do fin laan. Daar sunvaar lost drun zahriis naakiir romaaki - zu’u lost mal doz dovah rok hi du fen ni ausaavoo ok daal voth osos do kriev stenah, uv et hi laan ahs daar.
> 
> Think of it as a opportunity to prove yourself to Lord Alduin - Mindol nii ol miiraad kreild hin Thur Alduin. 
> 
> Lord Alduin may be our overlord, but I am unsure of how many of us wish to deal with the wrath of every other dragon whom our priests serve - Thur Alduin aal kos thuri, nuz zu’u vooviir do geis pogaan mu hind zahrvok vah pah dovah wo un sonaak aam.
> 
> Look at it. It’s pathetic. I don’t know why Alduin wishes to keep something so awful alive. It’d be kinder to let it die. - Koraav asht nii. Nii los kunahkin. Zu’u dreh ni mindok geis Thur Alduin hind dein osos sunvaar haano nahlaas. Nii aal kos maabriaar purzaan dumaavu nii dir.
> 
> Lash marks? So he’s a troublemaker even for humans. I absolutely will not allow such a vermin in my temples - Maak ahstiri? Grik rok naakiir orin fah jul. Zu’u thelaan fen ni dumaavu girk lir asht nedahi.
> 
> He hardly looks like he’ll survive another day as it is - Rok brikin koraav med rok fen voniist krost sul ol nii.
> 
> He’s a city rat, and a heretic at that.- Rok sahsun lir, ahrk sleveh ahst daar.
> 
> What do we know of him? - Nahst dreh mu mindok rok?
> 
> He’s a street orphan. My understanding is that he was found in a ruined village, and was taken in by a pair of low priests of the neighboring village’s temple. Passed between a few families, I believe, before they threw him out. I was not informed why. Few seem to have kept much attention on him - Rok golzkun oth. Mindoraani daar rok lost siiv alvuta sahsun, lost frah naal rovi nith sonaakke rosev sahsun nedah. Vod niik vounslaad bron, zu’u mindok, us nust rozahk rok thekaan. Zu’u mindonovaar geis. Mal yom lost dein pogaas morah nau rok.
> 
> Garbage, then. I doubt a thing like that would be- - Thekav, ruz. Zu’u doz sunvaar med dar aal kos-
> 
> I will take him - Zu’u fen frah rok
> 
> Master Ahzidal, forgive me for my words, but I do not believe that he is worth your time- - In Ahzidal, hokim zu’u fah roti, nuz zu’u dreh ni sahvot daar rok balaan tiidiil-
> 
> I will make that choice, Morokei, and not you - Zu’u fen zorox daar miiraad, Morokei, ahrk ni hi
> 
> Of course you’ll take him in. It’s always the orphans. After what, two hundred years? - Do ed hi fen frah rok ahst. Nii los ulse oth. Mindin, rovi grivol eruvos?
> 
> What was that, Rahgot? - Nahst lost daar, Rahgot?
> 
> This little shit isn’t going to replace them, Ahzidal. You- -Daar mal kahvol dreh ni bo steniir niin, Ahzidal. Hi-
> 
> Koraavo hin sahv, Rahgot, zaal zu’u vey nii nol hin thekav jot. Tinvaak do niin yod ahrk zu’u fen oviir praaliil los nil us ruz grind. - Watch your tongue, Rahgot, least I cut it from your worthless mouth. Speak about them again and I’ll ensure your seat is empty before the next meeting.


	6. Forget Me Not [T]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations, presumably, are in dovahzul.
> 
> Snippets from various conversations across time between Krosis and his patron dragon, Gruthrathlir.
> 
> Characters: Krosis, Gruthrathlir  
> Warnings: None

The cold winds that covered the temple grounds that signed their esteemed patron’s arrival didn’t feel nearly as frigid as they usually did. Nonvul had been pacing back and forth on the open plaza where his patron was offered sacrifices when the great beast decided to pay him a visit.

Nonvul watched as the magnificent dragon descended down onto his perch, landing with a gentle gust of powder snow that rattled the gold decorations on his robes. He bowed deeply to the beast, awaiting the rattle of Gruthrathlir’s scales to tell him he could rise.

“Nonvul,” Gruthrathlir rumbled, tucking his wings in to his sides. 

“Lord Gruthrathlir. Welcome, as always,” Nonvul replied, straightening his back out. 

Formalities aside, the dragon lowered his head down to Nonvul’s level. “You pace. Does something plague you?” the dragon questioned, a hint of concern in his booming voice.

Nonvul felt his face flush under the mask, and rapidly he shook his head. “No, no, not at all milord. Nothing plagues me,” he assured the dragon.

His voice told otherwise. Gruthrathlir rumbled, stretching out a wing to climb down onto the ground. He pushed his giant head forward, snout pressing against the metal of Nonvul’s robes. “Lies. What ails you?” 

Nonvul swayed with the force of the dragon’s gentle push, taking a step back to right himself. He took a deep breath, reaching up to gently cup the dragon’s lower jaw in his hands. His mind searched for the words in dovahzul while Gruthrathlir waited patiently, frigid air from his nostrils causing the fur on his robes to frost over with each breath. “Oh, i’m a fool Lord Gruthrathlir,” he whispered, hanging his head.

Gruthrathlir lifted his snout up, pushing at Nonvul’s mask for him to remove it. Nonvul obeyed, pulling the slab of bronze off before looking up at the dragon with worried eyes. The dragon pulled back, observing the man in the dim light of the moons. His head tilted to the side, settling down against the stone. “Has my priest made a mistake?”

Nonvul exhaled, lowering his head. He watched as Gruthrathlir’s tail curled around, enclosing him in the dragon’s grip. “I do not know. I know that I have, but I do not feel as though it is a mistake,” he said softly. 

It was a mistake. He knew that. He was a priest, a high priest, a priest with a mask - it was forbidden for him to entertain relationships, let alone with another priest, another high priest, another masked priest. Their relationship was punishable by death and worse. If anyone were to find out… Nonvul’s heart twisted. Things would not end well, and he could not bare the thought of bringing such a blow to  _ Miraak.  _

But in  the same breath, the thought of the other priest… it made his heart quiver. The way Miraak, the glorious, wonderful, great Miraak, had looked at him… Nonvul felt his cheeks fluster. His mind had been fully unable to stop remembering how he’d felt a few days prior, when he’d been pinned over the edge of the hot springs under his beloved mentor and what had been exchanged between them.

“It is not like my priest to hide his thoughts,” Gruthrathlir mused. “It is not like my priest to make mistakes. Is one to worry about such?” He questioned.

Nonvul pursed his lips, before shaking his head again. “No, no,” he said again quickly, reaching up his free hand to the dragon. “No, it… It is nothing to worry about. I promise you. I would do nothing to worry you, milord, or to cause you dishonor or harm.” His voice cracked a bit, and he cursed himself for being unable to lie about it. Gruthrathlir sorted out cold air, and Nonvul shamefully looked to the ground. He knew he shared a close bond with his patron, but he feared what the dragon might do to find he was breaking the rules. He knew what the likely outcome could be, and it scared him. “I beg you for your forgiveness, for I have been weak milord,” Nonvul spoke, dropping to his knees before the dragon.

Gruthrathlir’s spines raised up in curiosity, dipping his head down to follow his priest. “Forgiveness cannot  be given if one does not know what injury you seek forgiveness for.”

Nonvul felt the dragon’s cold breath ruffle his hair. “I know not if you have words for it, but I am… I long for another. I know I am forbidden from doing so, but I cannot help it. I am weak.”

The dragon paused, before letting out a low chuckle. “Mm, you are… as your kind call it, in ‘love’?” 

Nonvul tensed. Yes. He was. He was absolutely, head over heels in love. His stupid little harbored crush he never, ever dreamed of being truly a possibility had come true, and his heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest to even think about his new lover. Slowly, Nonvul nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly, biting the inside of his cheek as he braced himself for the worst. He was in love, but he would not lie to his patron. “Will you punish me for such?”

Gruthrathlir’s cool gaze lingered on Nonvul for a long moment, before his large head came to settle against Nonvul’s chest. “And make sorrow of my priest? No,” he rumbled. “Tell me, my priest, the one that catches your eye such. They make your heart tremble and they make you pace - surely, they must be great to have my priest’s attention,” Gruthrathlir chuckled, the end of his tail twitching like a cat’s.

Nonvul exhaled in relief, setting his mask down on the ground. He reached out, slowly embracing the dragon’s face as he pressed his forehead against the beast’s scaley snout. “Truely, you are just, Lord Gruthrathlir. I am eternally blessed by your patronage,” he sighed, closing his eyes tightly as he felt the dragon press back into his hold. “It… it is Miraak, milord. I have caught his eye as he has caught mine, and he returns my affections.”

Gruthrathlir’s body rumbled under Nonvul’s hold. “Miraak…? The dragonborn?” The dragon questioned, seeming surprised.

Nonvul nodded again. “Yes, milord. I pray that does not displease you.”

The dragon pulled his snout away, before he carefully nipped at Nonvul’s shoulder. The priest winced, but the dragon’s sharp teeth only lightly grazed him through his thick clothing and armor. “My priest seeks only the greatest of partners, as he should. This dragon would be disappointed if he sought any less,” Gruthrathlir spoke, pulling his head back. “So as long as you do not forget your place here, I have no reason to bring punishment upon you. Other dragons may dislike such, but I care not.”

Nonvul exhaled in relief, looking up at his patron. “Thank you, milord. My place will always be at your feet first. Nothing will ever be more important than you,” he said, bowing deeply again. “And your approval means everything to me.” He felt himself relax a bit as he rightened himself out to gaze up at the dragon again.

* * *

 

Nonvul had always been a bright-faced man - though many dragons hated it, it was one of the things Gruthrathlir liked about his servant. But ever since he’d come forward about his relationship with the dragonborn, his mood seemed to only be brighter. It pleased the dragon to see his most faithful so envigored - he had always been unwaveringly a loyal, devout servant, but he had only become more upbeat and faithful since Miraak had stepped closer into his life. Allegiance guide for certain, the dragon thought with a chuckle. Gruthrathlir wouldn’t have allowed for the relationship to continue if it had caused the quality of his servant’s work to decline, but he was rather pleased to see it had only improved it. He understood the displeasure other dragons had in allowing their priests to show devotion to others, but perhaps that only showed why his priest was superior to theirs.

“Miraak visited again, I see,” the dragon rumbled in amusement as Nonvul strided out onto the plaza.

The priest seemed a bit taken aback, but the smile returned to his face as quickly as always. “He did. I pray that has not displeased you.”

“I am only displeased that he did not pay me a visit,” the dragon rumbled, scales rattling, but Nonvul knew his patron was not truly upset with it.

“I tried. I’m afraid he is… worried about being here at times,” Nonvul admitted, taking his seat on the altar before the dragon’s perch.

The dragon tilted his head to the side. “The priest worries?”

Nonvul’s gaze dropped a bit. “He does not wish to let anyone see us, anything from us. He is afraid of punishment.”

Gruthrathlir rumbled lowly. “Zokgaaftu does not share my sentiment?”

Nonvul’s brow furrowed. “He does not talk to his patron like you and I do. He fears that if even a servant sees us, we may face punishment. He speaks often of High Priest Konahrik’s enforcement of the rules and tradition.”

Gruthrathlir hummed, his tail swaying slowly. “This displeases you.”

Nonvul nodded, looking at the ground. “I understand it. But I wish it did not have to be so.”

The dragon knew that even if he did not care for his priest’s relationship, other dragons might - especially Zokgaaftu. Even if Nonvul might be safe under his wing, it would not prevent backlash of other sorts. 

* * *

 

It was strange when Nonvul’s usual chatter of his secret meetings with his lover began to lose their warmth, when his tone grew flatter, his gaze drifted more to the side, the smile on his face seemed less alive. When his conversations became less and less about his secret love, and more and more when the topic seemed to extinguish the light in Nonvul’s eyes that Gruthrathlir didn’t think would ever dwindle. It made his white scales bristle. His priest slowed down, and though his work never faltered the bright man the dragon had come to know as his beloved priest seemed to be replaced with a husk.

“He has hurt you.”

Nonvul did not look up at the dragon. “I have hurt myself,” he whispered back. 

The dragon rumbled angrily, spines flaring along his back. “I will devour him. He has hurt my priest.”

Nonvul closed his eyes tightly. “You cannot,” he dared to say, swallowing dryly. “Nobody… they can’t know. We were never supposed to be together in the first place.”

Gruthrathlir’s claws dug into the stone above, sending ice and rock cascading down in his fury. Nonvul was right. To turn on Miraak would only lead to Nonvul’s punishment as well, if not his own at the claws of Zokgaaftu. The dragon exhaled a stream of frost from his nostrils in frustration. Perhaps he should not have let Nonvul pursue the other priest. Perhaps he now truly understood why other dragons forbid such a thing. If he were to punish Miraak, all others would find out what he’d known about and allowed. The dragon let out a sharp bellow, making the priest below him flinch. “Foolish,” the dragon snarled, pulling his head back. “My priest is plenty. He is a fool for harming you.” His talons shifted back and forth on the rock, anxious that he could do nothing to remedy the situation. “Does the priest pursue another?”

Nonvul grimaced. “I do not know. I see High Priest Zahkriisos with him during meetings, and I have heard that he… spends his days now with her, Master Ahzidal, and High Priest Dukaan. They say he does not leave Solstheim often now.”

Gruthrathlir paced back and forth on his perch. “Zahkriisos? The priest of Mahkofus? He is a fool! You best her in every way,” he insisted, rolling his head in frustration. He didn’t know what he was trying to achieve, but he did not like to see Nonvul wither because of Miraak.

Nonvul shook his head. “It… milord, please… do not fret over this. That is his choice. If that is what pleases him now…” Nonvul felt the words turn sour in his mouth, “then… then may he be happy there. I was not enough.”

Gruthrathlir let out another bellow, shaking snow and ice off of the surrounding rocks. “Not enough?” The dragon roared. His tail lashed around, cutting a chunk out of a rock behind him. 

Nonvul raised his hands. “Please, milord. I did not… I did not mean to anger you,” he spoke, trying not to choke on his words. He dared to look up at the dragon, and Gruthrathlir could see the pain in his teary eyes. “Please… I will not speak of him, or it, again. I should never have pursued it in the first place. Please forgive me,” Nonvul begged, sliding off of the bench to sink to his knees in the snow. His back bowed as he threw his hands forward, pressing his forehead into the snow as he deepened his bow. 

Gruthrathlir fell still. He could hear the soft sob from the priest as he kneeled there, and slowly the dragon moved to descend from his perch. His wings came to shelter the priest, curling his head down to rest it against the man’s body. “He has hurt my priest, I cannot forgive that. Dimmed a burning fire and reduced it to a ember. I cannot forgive that,” Gruthrathlir spoke, moving to nuzzle his face under Nonvul’s body.

The priest reached out and hugged onto his snout tightly, eyes squeezed tight. “I’m sorry Gruthrathlir. I should do better. I’m sorry I have only grown weak from this.”

The dragon nuzzled into his chest slowly, pushing him back against the altar. “Not weak. Never weak. Only wounded. Wounds heal. My priest is not weak.”

Nonvul took a deep breath, running his hands along the soft scales under Gruthrathlir’s jaw. “No god could be kinder than you to forgive blunders like mine,” he whispered.

“No servant could replace one such as you,” Gruthrathlir replied, unsure of how else to speak his feelings. Nonvul was not like others. Nonvul was his priest, and he could not be replaced. None before him could even come close. And he felt pain to see his priest grieving. 

Nonvul snorted weakly. “Surely, any could be better than I at this point. I must be disappointing you deeply.”

The dragon chuckled. “If I was displeased with you, I might have eaten you,” he teased, opening his mouth to gently place his teeth around Nonvul’s shoulder. He did not bite down though, and quickly let go to press his face against the man’s chest again. “This wound is not fatal. You will heal. You will burn bright again,” the dragon assured, before finally pulling his face away.

Nonvul looked up at the dragon, leaning back against the altar. “I pray that I will. If all else fails, I will for you milord.” 

* * *

 

The wail that escaped the priest’s throat boiled the rage in the dragon’s chest. Gruthrathlir had hardly landed on the ground before Nonvul’s arms were around his snout, the human’s face pressed against the scales as hot tears cascaded down his face. The man let out another weak cry as the dragon coiled his body around the priest’s. 

They had been betrayed. And  _ he  _ had lead the betrayal.

And he was gone now. 

Nonvul’s body leaned heavily against Gruthrathlir’s snout as his wings wrapped around him to block out the snow and the sound of the man’s grieving. Gruthrathlir took the silence as a chance to understand himself what had happened.

Miraak had been plotting to betray them. He understood now that, perhaps, that was what had caused him to leave his priest. Nonvul would never have betrayed the dragons, and he was right to have known Nonvul was far more faithful, the dragon bitterly realized. His priest was as righteous and loyal as he had always said, and far more than that so-called  _ allegiance guide.  _ Nonvul remained truthful to his name. Amidst the anger, he felt proud his priest had not succumbed to the traitor’s ranks. But in that, he understood his priest’s pain. Nonvul had believed. Nonvul had so deeply believed in Miraak, in what he was named for, in  _ him.  _ Gruthrathlir begrudgingly admitted to himself that he had too at first.

At least nineteen of his brethren had fallen and been devoured by Miraak at his last stand before he was slain, along with his three treacherous companions. Gruthrathlir could not swallow the loss of so many of his kin. Gone. Dead. Truly gone. It made him tremble with rage. He had not been told of the attack, and he was certain he would have joined if he had known. But as much as he wished to believe he would have been strong enough not to fall to the traitor, he knew full well that may not have been the case. Zokgaaftu had fought against his brethren, enslaved by some power of Miraak’s. Miraak had turned dragons against their own kin. He had severed the land itself.

Nonvul’s grip tightened on Gruthrathlir’s snout.

Nonvul had courted a dangerous beast.

Gruthrathlir did not need to say anything to the man. He simply remained there with his face pressed into the priest’s robes, sheltering him from the storm. What words could encompass either’s pain anyways?

* * *

 

“Krosis.”

This time, it was not an apology. It was not an expression of their pain.

It was his name.

Krosis’s heavy gaze stared at the snow below Gruthrathlir’s perch, before he slowly nodded. “Yes, milord?” His voice was as empty as the winds around them.

Gruthrathlir’s scales bristled. His priest, his beloved priest. Nonvul, the noble, the honorable, with his bronze mask and his brightness, his eager loyalty and servitude.

They had not approached him and asked him, his  _ patron,  _ for permission. They had not asked him to rename his priest. No, they had stripped that from him. They had stripped the dragon of his own honor as they stripped his darling priest of his own, by taking his name and making him an  _ apology.  _

Gruthrathlir’s anger boiled once more. In the aftermath of their betrayal, while all were still reeling from the pain and loss of brethren and healing from their treachery, the hidden relationship had come to light, and though no punishment would come the dragon and his priest had become laughing stocks of the others. 

How could you let your priest mingle with such a traitor? How could you have let him break the rules? Your priest was with the traitors. Perhaps he could be one of them. At least he was foolish enough to be with one. You were foolish enough to allow it.

Accusations. Sneers. Jabs.

Gruthrathlir did not waver. He didn’t care to. The other dragons would be angry at anything they could now. Miraak was dead, and far out of their grasps. Perhaps Gruthrathlir was the closest thing they had left to the snake for them to turn their anger towards. It was misplaced, but Gruthrathlir would weather it.

But his priest…

Gruthrathlir descended to the ground as he always had. 

Krosis. The betrayal ripped open a wound that was still healing and tore it deeper. Gruthrathlir wondered if perhaps this time it would be fatal, or if his dear priest would simply bleed out.

He did not press his snout to the priest. He held it at arm’s length, staring down at the man’s mask. Did he blame him for this?

Slowly, Krosis reached a hand out. He did not place it on his patron’s face as he used to, but instead left it to linger just a few inches away. Did his patron hate him?

Gruthrathlir pressed his snout against the man’s hand, pushing it back until his face came to rest against the man again. Slowly, Krosis wrapped his arms around Gruthrathlir, the cold mask pressing against the scales instead of his warm skin. 

“I have failed you,” he whispered, voice metallic under the mask.

“You have never failed me,” the dragon replied, his voice much softer than once could imagine from a dragon. “Never.”

Krosis’s heart ached. His patron never gave up on him. Somehow, despite it all, his patron always believed in him. He was never deserving of such a just god. “There is talk of rebellion,” he whispered, tightening his grip on the dragon’s face.

“I know,” Gruthrathlir replied softly. “My brothers laugh of it. They believe no such harm could come of it.”

“Do you believe that?” 

“No.”

Wind howled through the stones. 

Miraak’s rebellion had sparked something in the hearts of others. Or, perhaps, it had simply shown others their chance. Krosis and Gruthrathlir were not fools. Their time was starting to run short.

“I will remain by your side until the very end, Lord Gruthrathlir,” Krosis ensured, his voice still strained. He was trying to redeem himself. Trying to prove he was not so shameful.

Gruthrathlir did not need it. His priest had never needed redemption. “As I know you will,” the dragon rumbled. “Until the end.”

* * *

 

Through the fighting that broke out in their temple.

 

Through the long years of marching their people to safety.

 

Until Krosis’s body fell for the last time in the blood-soaked snow.

 

Until his beloved priest was taken into the arms of his people to be buried.

 

Until his sarcophagus had been abandoned at the top of Shearpoint. 

 

Until his beloved priest’s slayers came to slay him as well.

 

Gruthrathlir promised. 

 

His people were a loss. They had fled at the sight of their pursuers, leaving Krosis’s sarcophagus ajar in the snow where they’d simply dropped it and ran. It had taken the dragon to right it and push the lid back on over his companion before he shoved it to the side of a old word wall. 

_ I will see you again. _

Even as the painful jab of a spear broke through his chest and sundered the last breath from him, Gruthrathlir clung to those words. They had lost this fight, but another day…

His white scales glistened with blood in the weak rays of light that pierced through the clouds overhead as he made his last few limps to where the sarcophagus had been hidden under a pile of snow. The great beast collapsed, his head coming to rest a few feet from his companion’s resting place. Men gathered closer towards him, weapons pointed and ready to attack again.

The dragon’s eyes closed. That was fine. He would be there. He had buried his priest under the snow and a layer of ice so that their pursuers might leave it be.

He would see him again. That he was sure of. He would see him again when he awoke again.

The thought brought a smile to the dragon’s lips as he exhaled his last breath.


	7. Krosis Dear [G]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations, presumably, are in dovahzul.
> 
> Nonvul and Miraak had been happy once.
> 
> Characters: Nonvul [Krosis]/Miraak
> 
> Warnings: None

It’d been six months since he’d last seen him, and each month felt like it’d dragged on longer than the last.

It was difficult to observe formalities and to pretend like their meeting was no different from any other. But despite their best efforts, Miraak could hear the the subtle warmth in his own tone of voice, and it was certainly evident in Nonvul’s. 

With their servants and the lesser priests dismissed, and the privacy of Nonvul’s personal quarters protecting them, Miraak could hardly get his mask off fast enough. Nonvul hadn’t even closed the door by the time Miraak had removed the gold relic, and the second Nonvul had gotten his off Miraak pulled him into a deep kiss.

The two embraced tightly for a long moment, taking the chance just to become acquainted with each other’s warmth and touch again. Miraak wanted to pull Nonvul’s smaller body closer, like he might slip away if he didn’t, but the metal of their robes made it uncomfortable. Finally, the two of them broke away, Nonvul’s grey-blue eyes meeting Miraak’s green ones for a moment. 

Nonvul reached up to kiss Miraak again before backing up enough to fumble with his own robes. Miraak did the same, and in a matter of minutes the two were bare before each other. 

Miraak reached down and scooped Nonvul up the best he could, glad his bed was only a few feet away. Nonvul laughed, throwing his arms tightly around Miraak before he was plopped on the bed, Miraak flopping beside him in a pile of furs. Their lips found each other again, arms and legs tangled tightly around each other. Nonvul’s lips tasted like cinnamon, something rare and expensive no doubt obtained from the elves in some manner. Nonvul’s fingers tangled in Miraak’s hair, looping one of his braids around his index finger as Miraak brought one hand down to hold his side. 

They came away with a sharp inhale for breath, eyes half-lidded as they gazed at each other again. Miraak let his head drop onto the pelts below, exhaling softly once he’d gotten his breath back.

Nonvul smiled, that damn smile that always made Miraak’s heart flutter in a way nobody else had managed.

Nonvul brought one hand down to cup Miraak’s face, rubbing his thumb over Miraak’s cheek bone. “I thought the winter would never end. But finally the snows have melted, and a most beautiful spring is upon me,” Nonvul said quietly, his eyes sparkling with a gentle reverence for his partner.

Miraak felt the soft warmth of a blush creep upon his cheeks, and he couldn’t help but snort gently before turning to kiss Nonvul’s palm. “I assure you, it is you that is the sun that brings the world warmth,” Miraak replied with a chuckle.

Nonvul’s smile grew, before he snuggled up as closely as he could to Miraak. He buried his face in Miraak’s neck, taking a deep inhale of his scent. “I missed you, my dearest. I thought we might not ever get to see each other, with the way the gods seemed to plot our routes always in opposite directions,” Nonvul murmured, sliding his hand down from Miraak’s face to his shoulder.

Miraak closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of Nonvul’s body against his. “As did I. I will never let it drag on so long again,” he grunted, turning to give Nonvul a peck on the cheek. “My patience has run dry with such games.”

Nonvul chuckled. “As long as you do not displease our gods, my dear. I will always be waiting. You know their patience isn’t always as kind,” he mused, a comment he’d only dare make in the presence of Miraak.

Miraak hummed, propping himself up a bit to look down at Nonvul. “I do not fear their wrath,” he replied simply. He couldn’t get himself to admit it, but missing Nonvul at his side had been far more painful.

Nonvul could see the softness in his partner’s eyes though. Miraak was not good with his feelings- Nonvul knew that. He reached up again and kissed Miraak, holding it before breaking away and resting his forehead against Miraak’s. He reached down, lacing his fingers between Miraak’s. “Of course. Why would a god fear his peers?” Nonvul teased.

Miraak huffed, making his wavy black hair flutter out of his face. “Heretic’s talk,” he muttered, shaking his head. He pulled Nonvul back in close, flopping onto his back before pulling Nonvul’s head and upper body onto his chest. Nonvul adjust himself contently, keeping his hand tight around Miraak’s before resting it on the larger man’s chest. 

“Had I met you before I took up a mask, I might have desired to relocate under your tutelage. Then we would no longer be separated by such great lengths,” Nonvul mused, idly examining the scars on Miraak’s chest.

Miraak snorted. “If you had not taken up a mask, I doubt I would have had the chance to meet you, or ever know you as such.”

Nonvul frowned at the thought, squeezing Miraak’s hand. “I don’t like to think of a world where I do not know you. Where I have not had a chance to love you.”

Miraak turned his head, gazing down at his lover. “...Neither do I.” He squeezed Nonvul’s hand back, his other hand pulling Nonvul closer to his body. He pressed his lips softly against the top of Nonvul’s head. “Six months was too long without you.”

The two lay there in silence for awhile, simply enjoying each other’s presence again. It had been too long, for both of them. There had been a time when they’d been lucky enough to visit each other almost monthly - which for them, in their secrecy, was more than often. A few days at most every month was luxury for the two who’s relationship was more than punishable by death - but the six months they’d been confined to carefully sent notes had felt like an eternity. Miraak would have been happy to spend the rest of the day with Nonvul resting at his side and nothing more. Nonvul was… gods, Miraak could not find words to describe him. Love, many said. Perhaps. He did not like that word, but maybe some of it did encompass what he felt towards his partner. 

He felt safe with him, in the gentle caress and words of the younger priest. Nonvul would not hurt him, and he felt deeply that that was the truth. Nonvul was not a liar, a traitor, someone he needed to feel weary around. Even with Ahzidal, the man who had almost raised him at this point, Miraak knew he had to be weary. Ahzidal was a wise mage, a powerful priest, and someone who’s personal goals were never clear even after years of knowing him.

Nonvul was not like that. Nonvul was always truthful with him. Honest. Their quite late night conversations were always from the heart. Nonvul was always so careful with him. Normally, it would irritate him, but Miraak knew it was not as a insult, not to tell him that he was weak. It was out of a place of love, he supposed. 

Miraak shifted, making Nonvul raise a brow as his partner sat up. He leaned back into the furs, letting Miraak move to straddle his stomach. Miraak hunched over him, black hair a curtain around their faces. His green eyes were full of a difficult to read emotion, and his lips were pursed tightly. Nonvul stared back, reaching one hand up to rest on Miraak’s cheek while he moved to place the other on Miraak’s hip. “What is it, my dear?” Nonvul whispered, worried at the intensity of Miraak’s gaze. Miraak looked away, exhaling slowly before he simply leaned over and rested his forehead against Nonvul’s neck. Nonvul felt his lover’s body tremble a bit as Miraak’s fingers curled tightly into the pelts on either side of his lover’s head. He didn’t respond though, and that only made Nonvul worry more. Nonvul slid his hand up Miraak’s cheek, running it through Miraak’s hair. “Miraak… what’s wrong?”

Miraak’s body tensed, kissing Nonvul’s neck slowly. “When I was coming to your temple, I saw a husband and wife with their child,” he said quietly, kissing Nonvul’s neck again. “They seemed… happy. They were walking down the market street, with their child between them. They kept picking him up, one of his hands in both one of theirs.” Nonvul’s eyes softened, gently playing with Miraak’s hair. Miraak moved his hands from the pelts, pulling back to rest his forehead against Nonvul’s while his hands cupped his face. Nonvul’s lovely grey-blue eyes gazed up into Miraak’s much more distraught green ones, finally understanding what his partner was feeling. 

It was a certain sort of pain Nonvul knew as well. Nonvul cupped Miraak’s cheek again in return, sighing softly. “...I know,” Nonvul whispered, rubbing his lover’s cheek. “I know. I want it too.” He closed his eyes, exhaling heavily.

They couldn’t. They never could. They knew that from the start - this was forbidden, and the only way it could happen at all was behind closed doors in hushed whispers. Nonvul had always wanted it to be something different - but Miraak seemed to be able to handle the secrecy. Perhaps now it was finally starting to get to him too.

“I keep thinking…” Miraak whispered, slowly pulling away and sliding his hands down Nonvul’s neck to settle them on the man’s chest. “About our traditions. What they mean. Why they’re there…” His fingers trailed over the scars on his partner’s chest. Dovahzul, carved in with a sharp blade on the eve he’d been given his mask. Words that signified his ascension in his priesthood, a agonizing tradition each of them knew and remembered well. 

“Miraak…” Nonvul began, his tone carrying an edge of uncertainty.

“Why?” Miraak whispered, brow furrowed as he traced each letter. “They do not want our servitude to waver. Yet it is us who have found ourselves together. The noble. The allegiance guide.” He snorted bitterly. “Konahrik enforces the rules, leads us, but why?” Miraak flashed his fangs in irritation, his pressure on Nonvul’s skin increasing with his anger. “Why am  _ I  _ not the leader? Why do these petty rules apply to me? I am dragonborn, I am better than Konahrik ever will be, I-”

Nonvul sat up, silencing Miraak with a deep kiss. He held Miraak’s face close, making sure he couldn’t pull away until he felt the man’s body relax again. Miraak swallowed, still shaking a bit as he sat in Nonvul’s lap. His jaw tensed, eyes cast to the side. Nonvul gripped Miraak’s face tightly. “Enough,” Nonvul whispered, his voice wavering fearfully.

Miraak looked back at him hard. “Why?” He hissed. “I know you do not want to hide forever. Why listen to him? Why should he be our leader?” Miraak asked, tensing. “You have said it yourself. I am not like them. I am not like  _ you.  _ I am  _ dragonborn.  _ These… these  _ mortal  _ rules should not bind me. I should not  _ serve  _ men like a common peasant. You and I…” He reached out, pulling Nonvul’s hands from his face so he could hold them tightly in his own hands. “You should be ruling at my side, not hiding this in the shadows. I should be able to proudly claim you as mine, shower you in gifts and affections, place…”

“Stop.”

The words caught Miraak off guard again. Miraak’s lip twitched, flashing his fangs again in the firmness of Nonvul’s gaze. Nonvul pulled his hands away, taking a deep breath. Once again,  they found Miraak’s cheeks, holding his lover’s gaze firmly. “When Konahrik dies, you will take his place. I know that. But you… I…” He took a deep breath. “I can’t lose you, Miraak. I would rather be like this, having to hide, then to not have this at all.”

Miraak swallowed. Nonvul was afraid. “Do you think  that I could not best him?”

Nonvul shook his head vigorously. “No. But I do not wish to see the ire of our gods upon you again. I do not want the… the foolish mistrust our peers may have in you to be given any credit. I would rather have you like this than not to have you at all, Miraak. I want to be at your side without having to hide, I do. You know that. You know I want nothing more than that. But we have to wait.” He slid his hands up to the back of Miraak’s neck, pulling him forward to rest his forehead back against Miraak’s as he gazed sternly into the other man’s eyes. “Please.”

Miraak’s jaw tensed again. To wait. The idea made him itch and feel restless. To wait. It was not something his true nature wanted to do. He wanted to  _ dominate.  _ Nonvul could not understand that. Miraak’s gaze broke away, clearly conflicted. Nonvul sighed, before leaning forward to kiss the other man gently. 

“We have all the time in the world,” Nonvul whispered into Miraak’s ear, cradling his body against his own. “You deserve more than what you are given now, but you will have it. I know you will. But that time is not now.” He nuzzled his face into Miraak’s shoulder, hands stroking Miraak’s back reassuringly. “I had a dream, you know,” he whispered softly, feeling Miraak slowly relax again, “about us. You wore a crown upon your head, a brilliant one made of the most beautiful jewels. And he weather was warm and clear at Bromjunaar, when the snows had melted.” Miraak rested his face against Nonvul’s shoulder, closing his eyes tightly. “I was with you. Holding hands, at your side for all to see. Man and dragon bowed before you, and I was proud.” Nonvul kissed the crook of Miraak’s neck. “There was a woman next to you, and she had… this baby in her arms. I know he was yours. His eyes were the same beautiful green, with your curly black hair. And a young girl was at her side. I know she was mine. We were happy, Miraak. Together. We had what we wanted.” Nonvul squeezed Miraak tightly. “It all felt so real. I know it is. I know it will come someday. But I know… I know we have to wait. We have to go through this times where we cannot see each other, and we have to hide. But it will make that day all the more sweeter.” 

Miraak leaned into Nonvul’s embrace. His words, his warmth, his touch… He felt safe. He didn’t want to leave it. Gods, how Nonvul let him be  _ soft,  _ took him away for just a moment from the cold edge of the world he spent every other waking moment in. He hated that he had to be without it. But he nodded to Nonvul’s words, no matter how much his soul hungered to do otherwise. “Alright,” he whispered, nuzzling Nonvul’s neck. 

Nonvul finally pulled back, resting his hands on Miraak’s hips with a soft smile. “And if things now keep us away from each other, perhaps we should make better use of Master Ahzidal’s offer.”

Miraak huffed, settling back into Nonvul’s lap. The position felt… unusual to him. It had always been the position of a concubine in his own lab, and not a place for himself, but here he was anyways - knees on either side of Nonvul’s hips while the man’s hands rested on his own. How foolish he might look to any other. “Morokei spends too much time there. I do not want him to show up unannounced.”

“Would he?” Nonvul asked, tilting his head to the side. “I thought Master Ahzidal told you he’d keep Morokei away if we used his temple to visit each other.”

Miraak rolled his eyes, wrapping his arms around Nonvul’s neck. “It would not stop him from showing up unannounced. He shows up when he likes. Even if Ahzidal were to request he doesn’t, I do not want to risk even the slightest chance that he might… catch us.” The idea sent a shiver down his back. If Morokei were to see the two of them… There would be no way to avoid punishment. Morokei would have to die to hide it, and that in of itself would only create a new heap of problems.

Nonvul pouted. “Talk to Master Ahzidal about it. If it’s an option for us to see each other more often… then we should take it. And I know Master Ahzidal would rather do things for you than for Morokei,” Nonvul chuckled, leaning forward to nuzzle into Miraak’s chest playfully. “You’re his favorite, after all.”

Miraak scoffed. “Morokei would like to think  _ he’s  _ the favored one,” he said, before finally rolling out of Nonvul’s lap. He stretched out across the furs again with a sigh before propping his head up with one hand. “...I will ask him, on my way back to Solstheim.”

Nonvul grinned, leisurely flopping next to his partner. “Thank you,” he said, reaching out to catch the hook of his index finger under Miraak’s chin.

Miraak swatted at his hand, rolling his eyes again. Lazily, he flopped onto his back again, stretching out with a low groan. Nonvul moved to stretch across part of Miraak’s chest again, resting his chin on the man’s pecs. 

“Mm, Thuri Gruthrathlir still wishes to speak with you,” Nonvul said softly, leaning his cheek into Miraak’s warm skin.

Miraak grunted, resting a hand on Nonvul’s back. “Why?” He groaned.

“Because you don’t ever want to talk to my patron,” Nonvul pouted. “And I don’t ever get to hear the end of it.”

“Zokgaaftu never wants to speak to you,” Miraak said, as if that proved a point.

“Yes, but that doesn’t change that Thuri Gruthrathlir wants to talk to  _ you. _ ”

“I cannot believe he still  _ asks. _ ”

Nonvul shrugged. “My patron is a persistent one. And, perhaps, if you stopped  _ avoiding  _ him, he would not ask anymore.”

Miraak sighed, covering his eyes with his arm. “Perhaps next time,” he muttered, rubbing Nonvul’s shoulder slowly. “I… I want to spend this time with  _ you. _ ”

Nonvul’s eyes softened, before he adjusted himself to bury his face back into Miraak’s neck and shoulder. “Mm… I suppose I can take that excuse. Thuri Gruthrathlir will surely understand.” He kissed Miraak’s throat softly, making Miraak shudder. 

“What  _ do  _ you tell him?” Miraak asked, brushing his hand through Nonvul’s short brown hair.

“You are visiting as my mentor. Same things I told him before you and I began to see each other for  _ other  _ reasons,” Nonvul teased, playfully taking a patch of skin on Miraak’s shoulder between his sharp teeth before giving it a light tug. Miraak did not need to know yet that Gruthrathlir  _ knew  _ about them. If he didn’t even want to talk to the dovah, then it was obvious that Miraak had yet to trust him. Nonvul did not want to push that. He trusted his patron explicitly, but he would not force Miraak to simply develop the same trust. He had to take it at his own pace - even if it was being excruciatingly slow. They had all the time in the world as far as Nonvul was concerned. Miraak was already in his first century - and from what he understood, Ahzidal was almost half a millenia old. Nonvul hoped that the same long life that came as a privilege of being such a high ranking priest would grace him with the same longevity.

“And he believes that?” Miraak questioned, arching a brow as he peaked from under his arm.

Nonvul shrugged again. “He has not said anything if he doesn’t,” he said, nuzzling under Miraak’s chin. 

Miraak pulled Nonvul in close, finally resigning to his partner’s affection. He buried his face into Nonvul’s hair, taking a deep inhale of his scent again as he relaxed. He could feel Nonvul smile against his neck. Gods, how he had missed him. There was nobody that could replace him, and nobody who could come close to replicating the feeling of having his lover in his arms. The members of his harem could never replace what Nonvul gave him, and sometimes he found that frustrated him. If he and Nonvul were to ever be discovered… Miraak felt his heart twist at the thought again. He would never let anyone lay a hand on Nonvul, even if it meant putting his own life in danger. He couldn’t imagine losing him, and he could not imagine anyone else who had even come close to warranting that sort of feeling. Miraak’s fingers traced the muscles down Nonvul’s back, focusing on every feeling of his partner’s body. “The gods must be testing my patience, keeping you from me for so long,” he mumbled, kissing Nonvul’s temple.

“Perhaps, but you have remained faithful to them as you have remained to me,” Nonvul whispered, bringing his knees up to Miraak’s side.

“If they make it any longer, you will be the winner,” Miraak mused.

“You are supposed to be the  _ allegiance guide.  _ Your faith is always supposed to win out,” Nonvul pouted.

Miraak snorted. “Not over you, it will not,” he whispered, before moving to kiss Nonvul’s forehead.

Nonvul looked up to Miraak gently, stroking the side of his jaw with his finger. “Mm… and then you shall be a god, and I suppose I will be waiting to become your first worshipper,” Nonvul murmured, trailing his finger gently down Miraak’s neck.

“And you shall always be my favored,” Miraak replied with a low purr, before dragging Nonvul into a deep kiss.


	8. Dust Bowl Dance [E]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 8.5k
> 
> Starving and angry, Matminald hunts down the debt collectors that kidnapped his sisters, vowing to slay them before they lay a hand on them again. By the next sun’s rise, Matminald finds himself enslaved to the temple.
> 
> Characters: Matminald [Hevnoraak]
> 
> Warnings: Violence, Gore, Abuse, Child Death, Mentions / Implication of Unsavory Shit

His mouth was parched. The taste of dust and manure wouldn’t wash out even if he tried at this point, and it only made the sensation in his dry mouth worse.

Matminald leaned up against the side of the building, his dark-ringed eyes lulling to the side as he rested his head back against the rough wood boards. The cicadas only made the already hot temperature feel significantly hotter, and he fought to resist trying to swallow. It would only make the back of his throat crack and stick, and he would only be more miserable. The glaring sunlight made the bright patches of cracked earth blinding, causing him to squint as he watched the foreman berating some of the other workers. If he didn’t get off his ass soon, the bulky atmoran man would be down his neck too. Matminald sighed heavily, closing his eyes tightly for a moment until the searing white light of the parched earth had died down behind his eyelids. What meager pay he did get was brought in based off of his work - if he just sat there on his ass, he wasn’t going to get money, and that wasn’t going to solve anything. But by the Divines, was he  _ tired.  _ Whatever sinewous muscles remained on his bones ached and all he wanted to do in the moment was lay down and never get up again. 

The sound of feet scraping across the dirt as they swiftly made their way towards him made the teen crack an eye. Their voice clarified who it was before his eye had time to adjust to the bright light.

“Matminald!”

His other eye snapped open, very quickly pushing himself forward at the sound of his youngest sister. “Hlidr, what are you doing here?” Matminald hissed quickly, jumping to his feet as the young girl slowed down in front of him.

She was hardly eight summers old, and certainly not old enough to be wandering the roads alone - let alone to the edge of the village where lowlives like him worked. Big, wobbly tears welled up in her bright green eyes, wiping some of the dust away from her dirty cheeks when they fell. “Bruvel broke a pot yesterday by accident, and Papa said he can’t pay for it. The mean man keeps saying he’ll take Bruvel away if Papa won’t pay for it and… and…” She sniffled, reaching up to clumsily wipe at her face.

Matminald’s stomach churned, and he crouched down in front of his sister. “Hey, hey, calm down,” he sighed, brushing some of her brown hair out of her face. “How much does he owe?”

Hlidr fidgeted, reaching out to grab her brother’s thin wrist as she feebly tried to remember numbers. “Mm… mmm.. This… this much. Three tens,” she said, holding up a three on one hand and a fist on the other.

Matminald grimaced, rubbing his temple slowly. Thirty gold. He felt certain that whoever owned the ceramics was likely exaggerating the price, but that bastard he called his father was hardly in any position to argue it. He knew what the alternative was. Matminald swallowed, feeling his throat crack like he feared. He reached into his shirt, producing a thin-fabric pouch that jingled pitifully when it moved. Thirty coins. That was almost two weeks of pay. He poured what coins he had out in his palm, gingerly counting them. It would leave him with enough for food tonight and tomorrow, and that was it. He shoveled the few remaining coins into the pouch again before he took Hlidr’s hand, stretching it out before he piled the thirty coins into her palm. “Tuck this away and don’t show anyone you have it on the way home. You can’t come here again though, alright Hlidr?” Matminald warned, his voice low as he looked over his shoulder. The foreman had taken notice, and was now heading their way. He sighed, patting Hlidr’s hand before straightening himself out.

Hlidr looked at the money in her, sniffling before she looked up at Matminald with big, puffy eyes. She nodded, awkwardly shoving the money into the pocket on the back of her apron.

“What’s this damn kid doing here, boy?” The foreman snapped, looking Hlidr over.

“Nothing. She’s leaving,” Matminald said flatly, glancing at Hlidr with the most scalding glare he could muster for his sister. The young girl nervously looked between Matminald and the foreman, before nodding and hurrying off back down the dry path she’d came. Matminald put his hands on his hips, sighing before he looked back at the foreman.

“Ain’t the kind of place a kid like that should be hangin’,” the foreman grumbled, before looking Matminald over. “You slakin’, boy? I ain’t payin’ you to talk to little girls.”

“No, foreman,” Matminal replied. “Simply making sure she knew not to come here again.”

The man narrowed his eyes, before nodding and turning to head off to another part of the farm.

Matminald watched him for a moment, feeling the lack of weight around his neck. His stomach was going to feel even emptier than his coin purse at this point, but if it meant both of his sisters were safe and had food in their bellies, then so be it. He turned and picked up his pick, slinging it onto his shoulder as he headed back out into the dry fields ahead of him. It was going to be a long day of breaking clay again.

 

Every day had blurred together for the past three years of his life.

Matminald glanced over to the corner of the tavern as another fight broke out between workers. Men cheered as the two burly atmorans took swings at each other, clearly intent on much more than a ‘friendly brawl’. Matminald sighed, scooting slightly further from the ruckus. He brought his legs closer to his chest, taking a sip of the tasteless and thin cabbage soup before setting it down on the floor beside him.

He wasn’t the youngest person there, but he was getting there. Most of the people who toiled the fields at the edge of town were former criminals and beggars, only one step up from slaves.  _ Hardly  _ a step up from slaves. Matminald was certain that at least some of the temple slaves were treated better and probably had a higher standard of living. Here, he slept on the dirt floor next to dozens of other men crammed into a room hardly made for half of them while the rats scurried over their bodies and the fleas and ticks feasted on every square inch of their skin. They were being paid just enough to return back for the barest necessities, keeping them trapped there forever anyways. At least if he served the temple, maybe he’d be clean and half fed, and he wouldn’t be given the meager illusion of freedom.

Matminald quickly grabbed his bowl of soup as a drunken man stumbled past, making sure the idiot didn’t knock it over like he did two or three chairs in the nearby. 

But if he were a slave, he wouldn’t be making anything to give to his sisters.

The two young girls were often the only reason he pushed himself back up in the morning to go work the fields again. If his mom had still been there, none of this would be a problem. His sisters wouldn’t be almost as thin as he was, and he would still have a home, and he wouldn’t have to be the one working his ass off to save his sister from being sold off because his good-for-nothing father couldn’t be arsed to make money himself. He doubted the farm looked any better than it had when he’d last had a chance to sneak by and look without getting caught - and back then, it’d been a stretch of dry fields with a few feeble weeds and a handful of underfed chickens missing most of their feathers. There was no way Hlidr and Bruvel could run it on their own. Neither of them had the know how or the strength, and Hlidr probably wasn’t even old enough to remember what the farm  _ used  _ to look like. 

Matminald picked up his soup again, taking another tired sip. 

As long as his siblings were okay. That was what mattered. Even if he’d been kicked off his land and banished from the family, as long as his sisters were okay. That was what mattered. His father could never stop him from doing what he couldn’t. Their life there was supposed to be better, that was what his mother had told them. He was too young to really remember Atmora, or even the long boat ride over, but he knew this land was a new life that was supposed to give them  _ more  _ than their old one had.

As long as his sisters got that. He promised his mom he’d take care of them. He  _ promised.  _

 

The sound of crickets were the only comfort in the cramped, rank hobble he slept in. Matminald curled up, feeling the dirt scrape against his arm. Men snored loudly throughout the room, and the distant sound of other adult activities couldn’t escape his sharp ears. In the faint light of the moons that filtered in through the open windows and cracks in the ceilings, Matminald could see the form of mice darting in and out of the shadows of people’s sleeping forms, searching for crumbs and bits of leather they could feast on before the sun rose. Fleas and ticks were continuing their own meals, now undisturbed by as much scratching and swatting - except for on Matminald. His back twitched as he felt another one of the little bastards bite into his scabby skin, making him reach back instinctively to itch before he caught himself. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to make his skin raw and irritated again. He tried to close his eyes again, hugging his arms to himself in an attempt to fall back to sleep.

Bruvel had told him that their father was not faring well. Ill, the village healer had said. The young woman had wandered all the way out to the edge of town to inform him, though Matminald feared any sort of other possibilities accompanied with the visit. He’d handed over the last of his coins to his sister. As much as Matminald wanted to see his father perish,  _ suffer,  _ he was the only family member Bruvel and Hlidr had that they could live with or rely on. In a few years, Bruvel might be old enough to be able to fend for herself - maybe she’d find a nice husband who would take Hlidr in as well, or at least find a stable job and a simple home where she could house Hlidr until she was old enough herself. The very real possibility of much less palpable outcomes made Matminald’s stomach hurt more than the lack of food. The price of the herbs the village healer had recommended would add up quickly, and Matminald didn’t want his sisters to have to turn for more work. He would take the work himself, wherever he could find it, and as much as he could find it. For now, he’d have to make sure that bastard survived, if only because it gave his sisters a chance. They still  _ deserved _ a chance. He knew he didn’t - even if he thought his father’s choice to banish him from their household was a rash and cowardly one, deep down he understood he had deserved it. He had never been a good son, even when mother had been alive. The divines knew that, and each day he served his punishment for his misdeeds and cruelty. He’d come to accept that.

His face scrunched as he felt the fine whiskers of a mouse at the back of his leg, and he jerked it back so the mouse would leave him alone. A few seconds later, the mouse was back, and Matminald grunted in frustration before sitting up. He pushed back a few loose strands of hair, fixing his ponytail before reluctantly getting up. Gingerly, he stepped over all of the bodies of other sleeping workers, tiptoeing to the door before slipping out into the cool, fresh air of the night. 

The night air was cool, but comfortable. It was a welcomed change from the scalding summer heat they had during the day. Matminald made his way down the hill from the tiny shack he now called home, zig-zagging back and forth until he found a rocky outcropping to sit on. 

Only a month prior, he had turned 18 summers old. 

Matminald crossed his legs under him, slouching as he scanned the river valley below. He wondered how many more summers he had left in him. The last time he’d seen his reflection, he’d look like death. His cheeks were sunken, along with his eyes, and the dark rings under them had become permanent. Always dirty, always covered in scabs. Always tired.

He sighed, rubbing his face. He needed to find more ways of making money. Tilling the fields wasn’t going to make enough if he had to pay for his father’s illness as well. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to do extra work for long, and his damn father hopefully would get over it soon, or he wasn’t going to be around  _ to  _ pay for things. He already was working himself to death, and he was going to die even faster if his father decided to take whatever illness he had at the same pace he took everything else. Maybe if the man had tried to do  _ anything  _ with their farmland, they would have more money of their own to pay for it. He knew his sisters, even Hlidr, were working hard on doing whatever they could. Bruvel had told him Hlidr had been running errands and helping the neighbor with baking. Matminald had suggested renting the land to other farmers, but it had become so overgrown and dried-out that nobody had any interest in dealing with it. To fix and re-till the land would be more effort than it’d be worth to actually plant on it. The past few years of drought had made the land unfavorable. Matminald combed his mind for how much he could give them per week and how much he’d have to keep in order to continue going. It wouldn't be enough, he knew that much. The cost this week was already everything he’d had stashed. Next week it’d be more than he could make at this job alone. The difference he was going to have to make up was… enormous. Even with the girls working, he wasn’t sure how much they would ultimately be making, and he had to assume it wouldn’t be enough.

Matminald sighed heavily. The idea of having to get dirty to get money didn’t bother him, but he’d vowed to himself and his family that he wouldn’t if he could avoid it. He supposed there would be no more avoiding it. But he would do what was needed. If the Divines had pushed his hand, so be it.

 

A few loose flakes of snow drifted down from the sky, the last stragglers of a late storm. Matminald shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, looking down at the turned dirt before him. Bruvel stood next to him, gripping a shovel in one hand and Hlidr’s hand in the other.

“Bastard finally decided to give out,” Matminald muttered, the cold air stirring his hair.

“Don’t,” Bruvel whispered, closing her eyes.

Matminld snapped his head towards her, green eyes narrow. “You know I was only paying for his medicine because-”

“I know,” Bruvel snapped back, glaring at him with tears in her eyes. “He was still our father though.”

“He never-”

Bruvel shook her hair, turning away. “You hate him. I know. But he was our father. And he was the only family we had.” She tugged on Hlidr’s hand, heading back towards the badly tilting house down the hill.

Hlidr resisted a bit, sniffling before looking back to the grave. “Please don’t fight…” She mumbled, reaching up her free hand to wipe a tear away before stumbling after Bruvel.

Matminald sighed, watching the two girls head across the muddy ground before he looked back to his father’s grave. Not even good enough for the temple. His jaw tensed a bit, looking at the simple rock they’d placed as a marker. At least their mother had gotten that privilege. Their old man would be left forgotten like he deserved. Matminald doubted he was far behind from a similar burial. He turned away, slouching as he trotted after the shambling remains of his family.

Bruvel rested the shovel against the side of their house, not looking up. “You need to leave,” she whispered as Matminald pulled closer.

He paused, his jaw tensing again. “Bru…”

“Leave. Father banished you. I shouldn’t have let you come here to begin with.”

Matminald sighed, exhaling a cloud of condensation into the air as he looked off at the stormy sky. “Will you two be alright?”

Bruvel swallowed, looking down at the ground before looking to their youngest sister. Hlidr was chasing after one of their last two emaciated chickens, trying to round up the scraggly bird to put it back in its dirty, crumbling coop. The lock on the front of the coop only stayed closed with a long length of fraying twine, which Hlidr wrapped extra tight to ensure that it was secure. They couldn’t afford more chickens, and the few eggs they got from the poor birds were incredibly important sources of protein. “For now, I think,” she muttered, looking down as she walked over to fix one of the boards that kept the glass-less window closed. “I still have a job with Breidr. It’ll hold for now,” she whispered. 

Matminald glanced down at the dirt himself. “You know where to find me if you need help,” he said flatly, swallowing his emotions. He nodded a few times, his stomach turning upside down. Bruvel made no response, continuing to fumble with the board. Matminald turned away and finally headed back towards the crooked gate that lead to their property, balling his fists in his pockets. He couldn’t be mad at them. He refused to be mad at them. They had no reason to let him back into the family, and he had no right to believe they ever would. He just hoped that maybe now they’d be better off, even though it was clear that was likely not going to be the case.

Bruvel watched as Matminald closed the gate behind him and trudged off down the path. Their family was already disgraced as it was. Their brother had been the only one to keep them afloat, but they couldn’t let him come back. They would never be accepted then.

 

Matminald didn’t hear from either of his siblings until past his 19th birthday. 

“ _ How much? _ ”

Bruvel looked at the ground, bringing one arm up to rub her other arm. “Six thousand.”

Matminald brushed his hair back with his hand, looking to the side before pacing a few steps in the same direction. “Six thousand gold. Father owned  _ six thousand  _ gold,” Matminald repeated. He stared at Bruvel in disbelief as she nodded, before he shook his head. “No. That’s impossible. Our farm isn’t even worth that much. How do we owe six thousand gold?!”

Bruvel bit back tears, taking a deep breath before shaking her head. “I don’t know. They said it was with interest, or something. They wouldn’t tell me why father owed it, but they insisted he owed them and now we have to pay them six thousand gold. I already offered them the farm and everything we have but it’s still not enough. They didn’t even want the farm, said it wasn’t worth anything because it was so dry and ruined…” Tears started to cascade down her cheeks again. “I’ve been working non-stop, and so has Hlidr, but it’s just not going to be enough. They said they’ll be back when Secundus and Maser were full again and if we don’t have the money they’ll take everything, including us-”

Matminald reached out, gripping Bruvel’s arms tightly. “Bruvel. I won’t let that happen,” Matminald said lowly, his gaze firm. “Keep working. I’ll keep working too, alright? We’ll… see how much we can get, and you and Hlidr will be fine. I promise,” he said, frowning.

Bruvel tried to take a deep breath, reaching up to grip Matminald’s thin arms. “How are we supposed to get six thousand coins? We don’t have anything like that. We could hardly pay for father’s medicine and it was a fraction of this.”

Matminald bit his lower lip, before shaking his head. “Don’t… I’ll figure it out, okay? I think I have some plans. But you just have to trust me, okay?” He gave her arms a gentle squeeze. “Just keep focusing on what you’re doing, and i’ll see what I can do. I won’t let anything happen to you, or to Hlidr. Alright?” he moved and squeezed her face this time.

Bruvel closed her eyes tightly, a few more tears sliding down her cheeks before she leaned forward and hugged Matminald tightly. He pulled her close, listening to her sniffle against his chest. “Thank you,” she whispered, gripping his threadbare shirt. “Thank you so much Matminald.”

He pursed his cracked lips, shaking his head. “I promised i’d make sure you two were fine, no matter what. Alright?” He let her pull away, before putting his hands on her shoulders again. “We’re going to get this figured out. You just have to trust me.” Bruvel nodded, looking up at him with watery green eyes. Matminald brushed a tear off her cheek. 

Even if his siblings had thrown him out too, he wasn’t about to let anything happen to them. He had  _ promised.  _

 

People were no more difficult to kill than animals, but they brought better money. And he needed all the money he could get. And as long as it meant protecting Hlidr and Bruvel, the blood on his hands didn’t matter. It had never mattered. And it never bothered him.

 

But it wasn’t enough.

 

It  _ wasn’t enough. _

 

Matminald felt his throat constrict. The shack that had been his home, that had been Bruvel and Hlidr’s home, was a pile of still-smoldering ash.

They had been taken. Matminald didn’t need to check the ashes to know that his sisters bodies weren’t there. The debt collectors had taken them as their payment, and it made his stomach churn. It wouldn’t matter how much they had paid - this would have been the result at the end of the day. Nobody was there to protect the two young girls, and there was no amount of gold the three of them would ever be able to collect on their own to pay of whatever debts their father may or may not have collected, let alone with whatever ridiculous interest it had accumulated. 

He already knew where the debt collectors were. They had a shack on the edges of the village as well, out of the way where they could do whatever they wanted without drawing the ire of the guards or townspeople. They provided their services, and nobody else was willing to drive them off.

Matminald wasn’t going to leave them there. He wasn’t going to let those ment kidnap his sisters. He didn’t care whatever petty services they provided for the rest of the village. What mattered was that Hlidr and Bruvel were brought back, alive, and safe.

Matminald’s fingers tightened around the dagger he had stolen from a man in the fields. His gaze was determined, steely, as he strode down the dirt path to the collector’s hut. Light poured out from the windows of the rather large and still crooked building, accompanied by cruel laughter and the sound of drinking. Their laughter made the rage boil in his chest. The thought of what they could be doing to his sisters, what they could have already  _ done  _ to his sisters, made him tremble uncontrollably. His knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip more. They would pay, for even as much as  _ looking  _ at his sisters. He would do anything he had to to protect them. He’d  _ promised.  _

A guard outside the front door glanced up from where he was leaning as Matminald approached, clearly bored and less than pleased he’d been stuck at the post instead of being inside. He sized Matminald up, giving the young man a crooked-toothed smirk. “What are you doin’ here, boy? Scram,” he scoffed, waving a hand for Matminald to go back in the direction he’d come.

Matminald didn’t waver. “I’m here to collect something of mine that’s been taken,” he said, his voice low.

The guard arched a brow, snorting. “And what could a fucking flea like you possibly be gettin’ back?”

Matminald gritted his teeth. “My sisters.” He fought down his anger, trying not to let the man possibly know that he was planning to fight if he had to.

The other man let out a barking laugh, before rapping his knuckles against the door. A sliding panel opened up at eye level, and the guard leaned over. “We got ourselves someone lookin’ for the girls. Says he’s here to collect what’s been taken,” the guard said snidely, side-eyeing Matminald.

The young man lifted his chin. They would mock him, but it wouldn’t matter. He would gut them like the animals they were if they didn’t give him what he wanted. He wouldn’t leave before then.The panel slid shut, and  Matminald could hear someone shout in a muffled voice inside the shack. The sound of laughter and merriment paused, before it was followed by a low roll of mocking chuckles. Matminald ran his tongue over his teeth. He wouldn’t let them intimidate him. He would succeed.

The door opened up, and a beefy atmoran man covered in a multitude of scars motioned for Matminald to come inside. The guard smirked, eyeing Matminald as he passed by. He hadn’t gotten as much as a foot in when another man grabbed him, immediately wrangling him around. Matminald let out a snarl, trying to tug away, but the brute held him tight. The dagger was yanked out of his hand, and his body was roughly patted down for any other sort of weapon before he was roughly shoved forward into the center of the room.

Matminald’s eyes took a moment to adjust, looking around wildly at his surroundings. The center of the room was clear of tables and chairs, though the blood on the ground made Matminald assume this is where people brawled. Ruffians surrounded him on all side, parting only for enough room around part of the bar, the fireplace, and a large steel cage containing a very furious-looking sabertooth. His sisters…

The crowd parted for a man with a wolf’s pelt on his shoulder stepped forward, arms folded across his chest. “So. You must be Teksol’s rat son, eh?” He said gruffly, sizing Matminald up with a smirk.

Matminald’s lip twitched, hands curling into fists. “Where are they? Where are my sisters?” He spat, glowering.

The men laughed around him, but Matminald didn’t take his gaze off of the man before him. Their leader shook his head, chuckling himself. “Come all this way out here for them, eh? You really are one determined little son of a bitch, aren’t you,” he mused. “I’d heard they’d been getting help from their fuck up of a brother, but I really couldn’t believe it. Heard you were one fucked up little shit. Makes me wonder what kind of reason you want your sisters for.”

Matminald took a sharp stride forward, hatred burning in his eyes. “Don’t you  _ dare  _ talk about my sisters like that. I swore I would protect them from people like you. Give. Them. Back!” He snapped, his thin frame shaking.

The men barked laughter again, stoking the fires of Matminald’s fury. “Careful Fongiath, kid might nip ya,” a man taunted, taking a sip out of his mug.

Matminald’s green eyes snapped towards him, brow twitching for a moment before Fongiath spoke again.

“Now now, give the boy a chance. I’m sure he’s a hard working lad, true and honest like the rest of us,” he said, the smirk never leaving his lips. He made a motion with his hand. “Bring down those two lasses and let’s see what this boy’s willing to do to get them back.”

Matminald gritted his teeth until they hurt, trying to remain steady. His nails dug into his palm, drawing blood. His gaze darted around at all of the leering faces. Each man around him was armed, and more arments lined the walls. Mostly daggers, but a few had swords or even clubs. He guessed maybe two dozen men at best, in addition to the  _ cat.  _ Matminald side-eyed the beast, and he could hear it let out a low growl at even that much. 

Long moments passed before there was shuffle of people coming down the stairs to the second story, two men dragging along his two sisters. Both were bound and gagged, and the sight made Matminald’s heart stop. “Bruvel, Hlidr-” he began, his voice almost a gasp as he jolted forward to try to reach them.

Fongiath reached out and grabbed his shoulder, throwing him back towards the middle of the floor. “Now now boy, no touching the goods until we have our payment. That’s just the terms of transaction here i’m afraid,” he said, feigning sadness. 

Matminald snarled, flashing his teeth, but Fongiath gave him a dangerous warning look. The men parted so that the two who had grabbed his sisters could throw them to the ground at the edge of the circle next to Fongiath’s feet. Both were battered and bruised, and their eyes were puffy and stained from tears. Both of the girls looked at Matminald fearfully, kneeling on the ground with their hands tied behind their back and a strip of cloth in their mouth. Matminald tried his best to flash them a reassuring look, but he wasn’t sure how much it meant in this situation. He had failed to protect them from getting this far in the first place. He’d already failed them. Matminald tried to take a deep breath, straightening himself out. “What is the payment then,” he said, struggling to contain his fury.

Fongiath chuckled, reaching down to grab a fistful of Bruvel’s hair. She winced, and Matminald flinched forward and only just caught himself from making a lunge at the man for touching her. “As you can imagine, if you know the right people a pretty lass like your sister can make a pretty penny. Your youngest isn’t too shabby either,” he said, releasing Bruvel’s hair before roughly nudging Hlidr in the side with his boot. The young girl closed her eyes tightly, moving to try to hide her face in her older sister’s arm for support and protection. “So i’m afraid you’ll be paying quite the sum for the two of them, and i’m going to assume that since you failed to pay the debt that got them here in the first place you must not have much to offer.” Fongiath looked back to Matminald, scrunching his nose up a bit in disappointment. “But, if you’ve come this far perhaps you have something to offer.”

Matminald made a slight flinch forward, making a few people on either side of Fongiath flinch for their weapons in return. Fongiath held up his hand for them to stop, looking at Matminald expectantly. “Anything. I’ll give you anything,” he said. He reached up to the bag around his neck, scrambling to take it off and throw it to Fongiath’s feet. The collection of gold he’d amassed that he was going to give his sisters before they’d been taken came spilling out, a thousand some odd pieces in total. The coins and jewelry scattered around Fongiath’s feet and around his sisters, making the two girl’s eyes widen in surprise and Fongiath raise a brow. “A thousand and fifty-three. It’s not enough but you have our land. And if that’s not enough, then take me instead,” he said, flinching forward again before falling to his knees. “I’ll do anything. I’ll kill for you even. I don’t care. If I have to service every man in this room, I will. If I have to kill the village, I will. I’ll do fucking anything,” Matminald spilled, placing his palms against the ground before pressing his forehead against the rough floorboards. He bit back tears of shame in his eyes, and he tried to ignore the looks of horror on his sisters face. He would do it and more,  _ anything,  _ to get them out of this.

The room was silent. Fongiath slowly strode forward, pacing around Matminald in an agonizing leisurely pace. Each sharp sound of his boots hitting the boards near his body made Matminald flinch a bit, but he did not take his firm, focused gaze off of the dirty ground an inch from his face. Fongiath paused when he’d made it around to Matminald’s other side, before the young man felt the debt collector’s boot make impact with his side. Matminald’s eyes went wide, crying out in pain as he was sent sprawling across the ground. Pain bloomed out from his ribs, but before he could right himself another boot made contact with his gut. Matminald curled up, coughing sharply.

“You come all this way to offer  _ that? _ ” Fongiath scoffed, bringing his foot around to kick Matminald in his shoulder. Matminald flipped over from his side to his back with another cry. Hlidr let out a quiet wail, trying to hide her face more from the horror in front of them while Bruvel tried to comfort her sister. Matminald grimaced, looking over at his terrified sisters remorsefully. The boot made contact with his face, and for a moment Matminald saw stars. “You come all this way and think any of us want a starving rat like yourself?” Fongiath asked, stooping over as Matminald reached up to cradle his broken nose and split lip. Fongiath grabbed Matminald by his hair, yanking him to his feet by his ponytail before forcing him to support himself on the very tips of his toes as Fongiath stared impassively down at him. “Even the cheapest whores are better than you are, boy. It’s a damn miracle they haven’t just tossed you out for the ravens to pick clean. You insult us by even  _ thinking  _ you’re worth even half of your youngest sister,” Fongiath scoffed, before throwing Matminald down again.

He hit the ground hard, shaking his aching bones. Matminald curled up a bit, gripping his face. He could hear Fongiath start to walk away, scooting some of the gold with his foot. “Clean this up, Gell, and get this filthy animal out of my sight,” he ordered his lackies. 

Hlidr let out a rather loud wail despite being gagged, and Fongiath roughly kicked her over thsi time. “Shut up, girl. Or you’ll get it next.”

Matminald’s face contorted at the sound of his sister’s pain and the man’s words. He pushed his hands against the ground, leaving bloody handprints on the floorboards before he got to his feet. With a feral scream, he lunged at Fongiath, and immediately was met with a hook to the gut. Matminald’s eyes went wide, feeling the air get knocked out of him before he was sent crashing back to the ground. He rolled a few feet before stopping at the edge of the ring of people and tables, struggling with weak gasps to get air to fill his lungs again. The blurry shape of Fongiath’s feet approaching him sent off warning sirens in his head, but he couldn’t get himself to inhale air. He weakly scrambled at his chest as if it would alleviate the problem, looking up at Fongiath with a mix of bug-eyed and furious. The next kick made him black out for a moment, and returned him to the world with the taste of blood in his mouth, a missing tooth, and the sound of a high-pitched ringing.

Matminald tried to blink the stars out of his vision as he came to, his body slowly being grabbed to be moved. His head lulled to the side, watching through a half-lidded gaze as Fongiath stepped over to Hlidr. She was sobbing, Matminald could see that even if he couldn’t see it. Bruvel was shaking her head, trying to move between the man and her sister. A back hand from Fongiath sent Bruvel to the ground. Matminald felt the embers of rage reignite in his heart, but his body struggled to respond to his commands. He shifted a bit with a low groan, and he could feel the hands around his ankles tighten as Matminald slowly managed to slump his upper body to the side.

His gaze met his youngest sister’s as Fongiath ran a knife across her neck. For a moment, Matminald just watched. The look of horror, the way her green eyes rolled back in her head. The spray of blood that Matminald had become familiar with, only coming from the tiny throat of his youngest sister. The cascade of crimson down her front over her tattered dress and then onto the floor where her body fell limply, lifelessly. 

The first noise he could hear through the ringing was Bruvel’s high-pitched but still muffled cry at her sister’s body as she tried to scramble and push away from the gushing corpse. 

Fongiath straightened himself out, wiping the knife off on his pants. “None of you are worth that much,” he grunted, returning the knife to his belt as if its usage had not been to kill a child.

Matminald stared at Hlidr’s body. Her empty gaze stared up at the ceiling, gag turning red in her mouth as blood crept back in her throat. 

Hlidr was dead.

Hlidr was  _ dead. _

Matminald let out a scream. He turned, bringing his leg up to kick the man moving him in the face with all his might. His foot landed squarely against the underside of the man’s jaw, and even without shoes it caught him off guard enough that it sent the man stumbling backwards and over a table, releasing Matminald in the process. He hit the ground with a thud, but he wasted no time. His hand darted out and grabbed a mace that was resting next to its owner, dragging it out before its owner could react before he pushed off the ground and bolted towards the saber cage as fast as he could. There was shouting and the sound of surprised bandits, but Matminald ignored all of them. He brought the mace up over his head, before swinging it down on the lock to the saber cat’s cage as hard as he could. The metal crumbled and snapped under the blow of the sturdier weapon, and the saber cat wasted no time in shoving the door open. Enraged itself by years of captivity and mistreatment, the feline shoved Matminald aside with the cage door before launching itself onto the bar floor, sending people scattering in shock and fear.

Matminald hit the ground with a grunt, but releasing the sabertooth had done what he had wanted. People were fleeing outside and scattering, no longer caring about Matminald or his remaining sister. That was what mattered. Quickly, Matminald rolled himself to his feet, using his weight to help him hop back to a crouch. His fingers curled tightly around the mace. There was no more holding back. He had held back for his sisters, and now Hlidr was dead. Someone near him had drawn his sword, clearly still aware of what was going on despite the distraction, and Matminald wasted no time in bringing the heavy mace around and into his knee. The man screamed, the metal shattering the bone below his skin and causing the joint to bend backwards before he collapsed to his side. Matminald brought the mace back around and drove it down a second time, this time into his head. The spray of blood and grey matter made him flinch, but it was a small price to pay. One hit was enough - even if the man wasn’t dead, he soon would be, and he was out of Matminald’s way now. Matminald brought his arm up to wipe the blood off his face, turning to try to spot Bruvel in the chaos. Fongiath was barking orders angrily to people around him, hiding behind the bar while the saber cat lunged at another unfortunate bandit. Chairs, legs, tables, the long shadows cast from the fireplace - Matminald hunkered back around the edge of the cage, using the door to guard himself as he tried to spot his goal.

There, below a table. Bruvel had managed to push herself back under one of the nearest tables. Clearly, nobody had managed to grab her before she had, and nobody was willing to go out and grab her now. She was staring at the saber cat directly on the other side of a single row of chairs in horror, eyes bulging as she struggled against her bindings. Matminald cursed under his breath, looking around swiftly. The man he’d just hit. He spotted a dagger on the man’s thigh, and quickly his hand darted out and grabbed it despite its owner’s twitching and gurgling.

“Bruvel!” Matminald hissed, trying to speak just above the din of the chaos to get his sister’s attention.

She looked around wildly, before she managed to spot him in the shadow of the cage. She looked between him and the saber cat fearfully, tears cascading down her cheeks. Matminald held out his hand to her, motioning for her to stay where she was at. Tons of people had cleared out, but a good handful still remained trying to get control of the saber cat. Matminald waited until one of them had got the beast’s attention for it to pull away from the table Bruvel was hiding under, before he rushed over. He kept low to the ground, trying to keep behind tables and keep objects between himself and the saber cat primarily. He knew several men were behind the bar, including Fongiath and a man with a bow, but Matminald hoped that if he kept to the front of the bar they couldn’t see him, and then he and Bruvel could escape out a back door-

Matminald pressed his back against the wood of the bar, keeping his gaze locked on Bruvel. He promised he’d protect them. His gaze stayed locked on Bruvel, ignoring the feeling of Hlidr’s blood under his bare feet and the brush of her damp hair as he passed by where her body had simply been left and trampled. A man screamed somewhere near as the saber cat jumped onto him and bit down, crushing his skull in its jaws like a snowberry.  _ You’re going to be okay. I’m coming.  _ Matminald kept mouthing the words over and over to Bruvel, trying to keep her attention on him too. 

_ I promised. _

A flash of brown streaked in front of Matminald’s gaze as the saber cat was sent into the table Bruvel was hiding under, sending the structure toppling over and causing Bruvel to scream from behind her gag. Matminald flinched back, slipping in Hlidr’s blood and falling to his ass as the sabercat quickly pushed itself back up to its feet. Its blood-coated muzzle curled back into a snarl, until it felt something shift under its side. 

_ No. _

Matminald struggled to try to get to his feet, hand scrambling for where he’d dropped the mace as the saber cat turned to the girl it’d fallen onto. His hand grabbed a broken chair leg, but it would do.

The cat’s mouth opened, strings of blood and saliva stretching between giant canines and rows of sharp teeth. 

Bruvel made one last terrified look to Matminald, before those teeth found their way around her skull. A full grown man’s skull was not enough to stop the saber cat from crushing it, and Bruvel’s was no different. 

Matminald stubbled to a stop, feeling the spray on his face. He slipped, hitting the ground hard. For a long moment, he stared at the ground as the sound of cracking bone filled his ears, followed by the soft thud of a body. Matminald’s gaze fearfully turned up to the saber cat he’d let loose. His sister’s blood dripped down the cat’s muzzle, staining its giant teeth red as it stared down at him with the same ire it had for everyone else. Through his fear, his illness, and his pain Matminald tried to pull back, swinging the chair leg forward in defense. It hit the saber cat in the face, doing little more than making it snarl in irritation. Lightning fast, the saber cat’s paw lashed out, and Matminald felt his own skull make impact with the side of the bar in tandem with the feeling of the saber cat’s razor-sharp claws tearing through his face. His body slid down the wood, leaving a bloody smear against it before he came to slump once more in the creeping pool of Hlidr’s blood.

Ringing met his ears again, and stars danced in his eyes. Everything smelled like blood and bile. His wide-eyed and disoriented gaze stared out as the cat turned around to face a man who had stabbed it in the back with a sword, sparing him the saber cat’s attention once more. He blinked slowly, exhaling. His breath rippled the blood next to his face, before his eyes rolled to the bloody tangle of brown-blonde hair where the table had been. Her hair covered her face, but perhaps that was for the best. Matminald could see where her skull split and crumbled under the beast’s jaws. Had she screamed? 

He couldn’t remember.

His gaze shifted beside him. At some point, Hlidr’s body had been kicked over. Her nose was smashed into her face, but her eyes still gazed vacantly, emptily, in his direction.

He promised.

Matminald wasn’t sure when he threw up, but he did. And he wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he finally managed to sit up, but there was a point when he had. He leaned back against the bar, watching as the saber cat backed away from a handful of men. Swords and arrows stuck out of its pelt, but still it fought. For what reason? None other than revenge and anger?

Matminald’s gaze softened for a moment. 

He’d spent all that time living for others.

His fingers curled around the shaft of the mace again, before he righted himself to his feet. Everything tasted like bile and blood. Slowly, he licked his lower lip. Was it his? Hlidr’s? Bruvel’s? Another’s? Did it matter?

His lips curled back into a smirk as he turned back, his gaze meeting Fongiath’s rather alarmed one. 

Matminald, Teksol’s mangy son, that little monster unbefitting of being lovely Hiarjodril’s son. 

The disgrace, the banished one. 

He sisters wouldn't even take him in after he supported them. 

He could be found behind bars in the evening, they said.

Got caught torturing small animals, they whispered.

Broken boy.

Disgusting, dirty, sick boy.

Kills men, lays with men, a sinful thing.

 

All for his sisters. 

 

He promised. He promised they’d be okay. Promised they’d survive, even if he didn’t. He would give up everything for them. He  _ did  _ give up everything for them.

 

He lived for them.

 

What do you do when they’re gone?

 

The first beams of light crept in through the broken glass as the sun finally broke the mountain line.

Matminald’s blood-shot gaze lifted for the first time since the fire had burned out in the fireplace. The first fingers of the golden rays caught the sparkle of a still wet pool of blood, one of many it would touch as it climbed further into the sky.

Matminald didn’t flinch when the man let out a scream. He only shifted his gaze to the messenger as he staggered away from the door and back down the road, away from the sight of the shack. Matminald’s gaze fell back to his knees as he waited.

The temple found him sitting in the center of the room, knees pulled to his chest and arm wrapped around them, bloody, bent mace in one hand. One eye swollen shut, claw marks stretching from the side of his head to his chin. Coated from head to toe in blood. Surrounded by bodies. Bloody, mangled, tortured bodies. What had been killed by the cat and what had been killed by the boy was inseparable - whatever had been left he’d gone to town on, beaten until they were all nothing but bloody pulps. Man were only identified by a few belongings that had survived the onslaught. 

 

19 men, 1 saber cat, 2 young girls. 

 

Matminald did not seem phased by the charges. He looked on vacantly at the priest, wrists in their shackles resting limply against his front. It was the cleanest he’d been in years, really. Even on death’s row they had cleaned him of blood and given him a simple tunic. He couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Even a man waiting on death’s door had it better than how he’d had it before.

He was ready to accept his punishment. He was ready to face the priest’s blade, or their patron’s teeth, or the burn of the stake. He’d come to terms with what he’d done, and what he’d failed. He’d come to peace with his demons.

 

“No. Send him to the far fields. He’s still got a few more years on him. They need young workers like him out there. He’s better off serving that way.”

 

He wasn’t going to die.

 

They were going to spare him, to a life of toiling the fields until he expired and collapsed, for his body to be burned down and returned to the soils he had died on.

But he had failed.

But he had killed.

 

But the gods hadn’t killed him.

 

Matminald walked down the halls behind the priest appointed with his case, following the man to where he would be taken out to his new home. The far fields. He’d be a slave. 

What different was that from what he’d been? 

Matminald stared at the back of the man’s head, the unnerving intensity and yet  _ vacancy  _ in Matminald’s gaze making the young priest glance back constantly in nervousness. 

Life was just returning to the same way it had been.

Matminald closed his eyes as the bright light of day met his eyes with the scalding judgement of the sun.

Hlidr was gone.

He squinted, feeling the priest tug on his chains as he lead him down the steps of the temple.

Bruvel was gone.

Matminald did not notice the stares of other patrons as he passed by them. They did not matter. Nothing did.

A thin lipped smile came to Matminald’s face. There was only one thing left, one thing worth living for, the only thing in the world that meant anything at all.

And that was himself.

Matminald chuckled, making the priest grimace.

 

He would live for himself.


End file.
